


Ode to Fury

by IndigoDream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alive Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher), Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Drugs, Fuck Canon, Identity Issues, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stregobor Being an Asshole (The Witcher), Temporary Blindness (in the past), Temporary Muteness, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, mention of child death, mention of the witcher trials, mentions of jaskier/others, starts before the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 86,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: Made a witcher when he was young, the halls of Kaer Morhen have no secrets for Julian. He is an expert witcher now, inseparable from his friend Vesemir's side. Amidst teaching chaos, he is asked to help prepare new trials for a thirteen years old boy, who just passed his first trials.When he refuses to help them, he is cast out from the wolf witchers' stronghold, separated from his friend. He is then confronted by Stregobor, a mage with whom he fought a few years prior, who seeks revenge on him, and who is helped by another wolf witcher set out against Julian.This is the story of how Julian, Wolf Witcher, became Jaskier the bard, and how, accidentally, he discovers himself a family outside of Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Renfri | Shrike, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Comments: 384
Kudos: 555





	1. In the Beginning, there was a witcher

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome, here is my beloved baby, my jewel and star, my-- Ok i'll stop now. 
> 
> This is inspired (and helped by) a discussion (or ten thousands...) I've had with my darling, beloved friend [ChaosWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosWriting/works), and it only started off as a "hey did you notice Posada and Blaviken are pretty close to Kaer Morhen compared to other cities" and then evolved into mad chaos, as it always is. 
> 
> The title is from the song "Ode to Fury" by Miracle of Sound, and I highly rec it! I may have listened to it a lot for certain parts of the fic lmao oops 
> 
> Enjoy the fic!

The boys are training in the courtyard, all so young and enthusiastic, their faces scrunched up in concentration as they go through the exercises they have been learning since their arrival in Kaer Morhen. Julian observes them all, watches as the last ones attack each other almost savagely, their eyes already glinting golden.

Only seven of them had survived the trials that year. Out of twenty, seven had lived through them. Julian had sat through the trials of grasses of all of them, had listened to their screams of agony, and had wondered how they could keep doing this. His own trials are far away now, but he will sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, screaming silently, as he feels that first burn in his throat. There is only Vesemir to calm him then.

The thirteen that had survived the trials of grasses had been sent to the trials of dreams then. Their bodies had been modified, amended, changed until they could become killing machines. It had left only seven of them alive. Julian hadn’t been able to sit through their trials of dream. He couldn’t handle their screams a second time. 

And now, out of the seven, they had picked one of the children, to go through more mutations. Mutations that had killed many an adult witcher. 

Julian twists his medallion between his fingers, tugging on the chain until it digs into his neck. He misses the Path, suddenly. Misses the hard ground, the monster hunts, the easy choice between life and death. He had only accepted this position as Health and Healing Professor temporarily; Deren had needed to go get some precious scrolls from some temple in the south, and had asked Julian to take his position for the year. It had been an easy decision then; a year training kids and teaching them about the benefits of potions was much easier than a year spent being scarred and scorned. 

Then Deren had gotten himself fucking killed by some sorceress he had fucked over, and Julian had found himself stuck in the position. This was now his seventh year teaching, and until now, he had been content. They hadn’t ever asked him to stay for the trials before, and Julian had been content to lose himself in potion making and teaching, in between two spars with Vesemir. 

But now, they need him. The other professors, the elders of Kaer Morhen, need _him_ to make the potions they want, so that they may experiment further on one of the boys. One of _his_ boys.

Julian isn’t just angry. Rather, he has never felt before quite a fury. He has never held within himself such rage. 

“Julian,” Amerys speaks up behind him, “he is the strongest candidate for such a thing-“ 

“He is a thirteen years old boy,” Julian growls as he whirls around, and his hand nearly reaches for his sword. “You’ll kill him!” 

“He is the youngest one we will attempt it with so far,” Roland says, voice calm. He is the oldest by far, but not the strongest, not anymore. Still, he commands respect. “We have all the reasons to believe he will survive.” 

“He is a _child_ ,” Julian snarls. “A child you’ve already put through the trials of grasses and dreams barely a month ago. He is recovering! You can’t do that to him. I won’t allow it.” 

“We are not asking for your permission. We are ordering you to make the potions we need. You are the best of us at mixing potions.” 

“I refuse your order then, Roland. And you’ll be damned to find anyone who can mix that potion now that Deren is dead.”

“You don’t have a choice. You will make the potions.” 

Julian wants to yell and draw his swords, but he knows what will happen if he does. They’ll not just punish him, they will make an example out of him. He has already defied them enough in the past. He has the scars to prove it. 

“I won’t.” He says the words simply. “You can’t force me to do so. I’d rather burn this fortress to the ground than make those thrice-cursed potions. I won’t be responsible for the death of yet another child.” 

“You’re not fit to be a witcher, and not fit to have been granted your status.” Roland takes a threatening step towards him. “I should never have chosen you for the mutations.” 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Julian grins, his sharp teeth glinting in the light that bathes the room. “But you did, and now you’ll have to live with the consequences of that choice until your death. Unless you kill me first.” 

The room goes quiet. Ten witchers, ten elders, and none of them would have dared say something like this to Roland. After all, Julian’s mentor is a hero, a legend. He fought beasts that have long since disappeared, slayed enough demons that they became legends whispered in the dark. 

Julian is different from them all, his golden eyes set firmly in his mentor’s eyes. Roland will never kill him. After all, he is his precious little experiment, too. The last of a dying kind. And his death would lead to another one, and none of the elders wish to lose two witchers at once. 

“Don’t push me, Julian,” Roland steps closer. “I made you who you are, I could just as well decide to take it away.” 

“I would like to see you try,” Julian answers and steps into Roland’s space. “Now move.” 

The older witcher is impassible for a few seconds. His shoulders are tense, and his thick eyebrows are drawn close together. The scar that cuts his nose in half would make him impressive to anyone outside of the castle; to Julian, who has grown up within those very walls and who has a fair amount of scars littering his body, it’s nearly laughable that Roland is trying to intimidate him this way. 

The man steps back. “You won’t be as easily forgiven this time, Julian,” he warns. 

Julian laughs this time, bitter and loud in the silence. It shakes his whole body, shakes his whole world, and he feels himself almost breaking apart. How dare Roland imply that anything they have ever done to him as been easy? How dare he imply that Julian should ask for forgiveness? This life they have thrust upon him has brought him curses after curses. Only Vesemir’s friendship has been a solace. 

“Do not presume I want to be forgiven.” 

He shoves past Roland, to the door of the room, and he is wrenching it open when Amerys speaks again. 

“Are you deserting your post, Julian?” 

The question is simple, coming from the mouth of the Witcher’s weapon master and blacksmith. Amerys had been, out of the eleven wolf elders, the only one who had gained Julian’s respect year after year. He had not always been kind, but he had been fair in his dealings with them all. Julian remembers learning how to mend his armour, how to forge an iron sword that would serve him well. 

“Never let anyone dictate your Path,” Amerys had told him the first year he had left Kaer Morhen. “You are a Wolf, Julian. Don’t forget that.” 

Julian has kept that advice in his mind for a hundred and fifty years, and he has never lost sight of it.

“I’m choosing my own Path from now on,” Julian answers, and he walks out of the room. 

— 

“Julian!” 

Shit. He can’t do this, not if it’s Vesemir asking him to stay. 

“I’m leaving, Vesemir,” Julian carefully does not look at him. “I can’t stay here anymore. I won’t watch them kill yet another kid, just for their stupid experiments.” 

“You can’t abandon them then, the kids,” Vesemir says, reaches for his shoulder. “You can’t abandon me.”

"I’m not abandoning you,” Julian tries to keep his voice level as he packs his belongings, closing his bag and keeping his eyes away from his oldest friend. “I just can’t do this anymore. I’m not going to watch them kill another kid, not again.” 

Vesemir clutches his shoulder, and Julian swallows down the guilt and pain he feels echoing in the pit of his stomach. He has to do this, for himself, for the kids. If he is gone, then there won’t be anyone to make the right potions. At least, not for a little while, and that might buy the kids some time. He just has to go away. 

“Please, don’t leave me,” Vesemir pleads, and takes him in his arms. “I know this is hard but-“ 

“It’s not just hard, Ves,” Julian nearly sobs. “I had to watch the kids die in those fucking trials. I _buried_ them. You know what they were going to do otherwise? Just throw the corpses in a pit and call it a day! Like they were nothing, like their lives didn’t matter. I thought that at least, they had some respect for those who didn’t make it. They don’t even have that.” 

“I know, I know,” Vesemir presses his forehead against Julian’s, their heartbeats echoing one another. “I’m sorry, you are right, you deserve to leave, you deserve to have your life be yours, not theirs. You were always special, Julek. So special…” 

The man’s rough hands bury themselves in Julian’s hair, and they breathe into the other’s air for a second, tears shining in their eyes. Julian, with a soft regret that tears at his heart, presses a gentle kiss to his friend’s cheek. They had tried to be together when they had been teens, right before the Path had taken them. They had tried to see if their hearts aligned this way, if their bond was deeper than friendship, but it had never worked. Now, the endless affection they have for each other is a calm storm, waiting to rage when one of them is pained. 

Vesemir doesn’t do anything to indicate he is acknowledging the final gesture as it is. 

“Let me walk you to the gates at least,” the man says quietly, and tosses his friend’s pack over his shoulder. “Please.” 

Julian can’t argue against that. He owes the man this much, and maybe Vesemir will forgive him his betrayal one day. He hopes so, hopes that one day he might see him again. It’s unlikely though. 

His swords settled on his back and his pack thrown over Ves’ shoulder, Jaskier walks in silence to the courtyard. Only a few of the boys are remaining there, most of them the oldest ones. He can see Eskel and Eric, play fighting on the side and laughing loudly with each other, and then close to them, Lambert. The kid is one of the most recent ones they had brought in, and he trusts no one yet. Eskel and Eric, the duo that had taken Kaer Morhen by storm, reminding Julian a bit of his own childhood with Vesemir running by his side, had decided to take him under their wings though. 

Julian can’t bear to say goodbye to them. He can’t stand the way the trio lights up slightly when they notice their two professors walking. It’s no secret that the children prefer Julian over most of the rest; Julian is one of the few ones that lets them try dangerous experiments in his classroom, although he never lets them drink the wrong potions they make. He remembers Deren making him drink his own failed potions when he was younger, and the memory still twists his stomach.

“Vesemir! Julian!” Eskel exclaims and runs towards them, Eric and Lambert close on his heels. “Are you going somewhere?” 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Julian smiles weakly and ruffles the boy’s hair. “I’m going on a trip, classes are suspended for a little while.” 

“Are you going with him?” Eric tilts his head as he looks at Vesemir, his eyes quickly going back to Julian. “You aren’t leaving alone, right?” 

“I have to,” Julian says and messes the boy’s reddish hair. “You’ll be in good hands with Vesemir though, and you three will be the best witchers Kaer Morhen has ever seen.” 

He is about to add more, about to tell them to be safe and make sure to keep an eye on each other, when a movement at the gates catches his eye. 

Roland is standing there, sword in hand, his scarred face closed. He is standing in with what is, doubtlessly, an offensive stance that must have scared its fair share of opponents when the witcher still traveled the Path. 

Julian isn’t one of those. “Go back inside,” he orders the three teenagers around him.

“But-“ 

“Now,” he says, harsher than he intends to be. “It’ll all be fine, boys. You go back inside and do your chores, and don’t you dare come back inside, understood?” 

Eric tries protesting again, his golden pupils blown wide, but Eskel and Lambert drag him away quickly. Julian ignores the pain of seeing the three kids like this. 

“Give me your silver sword,” Vesemir says. “I don’t have my swords, and I’m not letting you fight Roland on your own.” 

“You don’t have a choice, Ves.” Julian sighs. “I’m not letting you get in trouble for me. Not again. Someone has to stay behind and make sure the kids are alright.” 

“They aren’t children anymore,” Vesemir tries to protest. “They can look after themselves and you-“ 

“I’m a witcher,” Julian growls and looks at his friend. “I went through the same training as you did. _Roland_ took me under his wings, and made me pass those trials that left me like this. If he wants to fight, then he’ll get a fight, but I won’t let him get you too.” 

Vesemir almost pushes against him, almost grabs his sword anyway, but instead he takes a step back and nods seriously. 

“Don’t kill him unless you have to,” he says quietly. 

Julian wonders whether it’ll be his choice as he steps forward. 

“You are not leaving this fortress,” Roland announces loudly. “You’ll be tried for treason and executed for your crimes.” 

“Seems that if you’ve already decided on whether or not I’m guilty, it defeats the purposes of a trial.” He draws his own sword out. “Let me go and I’ll be happy to forget this damned place. I won’t call myself a wolf witcher, I won’t make any wave. But if you don’t…”

“If I don’t, what, Julian?” Roland snarls. “You have never been able to defeat me in over a hundred years of being a witcher. You won’t get to have another option.” 

“Fuck you,” Julian growls, and he attacks first.

The fight is evenly matched, both of them drawing on the strength developed over decades of fighting monsters and training every day, even during the harsh winters up here in the mountains. Julian is faster and lighter on his feet than Roland is, but the older witcher has, undeniably, a knowledge of fighting that goes beyond Julian’s. It doesn’t matter. 

Julian manages to strike first, and his sword pierces through the weak point of Roland’s armour, the skin and bones under Roland’s arm fading to let place to Julian’s sword. The man screams loudly, but he still manages to slash at Julian’s neck. The cut is only superficial on Julian’s skin, but his wolf medallion falls to the ground. 

With a yell, Julian removes his sword from the flesh and hits Roland with the hilt of his sword, sending the older witcher tumbling to the ground. 

“Don’t fucking underestimate me,” Julian growls, and he doesn’t kill Roland, but the anger almost drives him to it. “You were never to be credited for who I am. I made myself, tear by tear, cut by cut, and if you think you can stop me, you are a deeper idiot than I thought.” 

With that, Julian tosses his swords on the ground and goes back to Vesemir. 

His friend is looking shocked, looking at the blood splattering Julian’s hands, and he immediately takes them in his own. 

“What have you done,” he asks without expecting an answer. “You nearly killed him, you’ll never be let inside again-“ 

“I was never going to be allowed inside again anyway,” Julian says gently and takes his pack from Vesemir. “Take care of the kids. May our Paths cross again, Vesemir.” 

He hugs his friend, tries not to linger in the arms of the man, fails at that. It takes him longer than he had intended, but after a few seconds he manages to drag himself away from the closest friend he’ll ever have. He shares half of a soul with this man, and he is cutting him away from his life, so selfishly. 

He can’t ask Vesemir to come with him. The man would never accept, but he would guilt himself for the centuries to come about the choice he had to make. His duty, honour, life, or Julian.

So Julian doesn’t give him the choice. He walks away, out of Kaer Morhen, and back onto the open roads. He doesn’t have his swords or medallion anymore, but he won’t miss their weight. He is finally free. 

In the courtyard, Vesemir is stunned in place. He hadn’t truly believed that Julian would be leaving, but now, as the silhouette of his friend disappear in the mountains, he has no choice but to confront reality. 

Roland groans on the ground, trying to get up, and Vesemir rushes to him. Before reaching him, he notices the bright shine of silver on the ground, right next to the pooling blood. As he kneels and helps the other witcher to his feet, he grips the silver medallion and pulls it into his pocket. 

He might not be allowed to keep his friend’s swords, but he can keep his medallion at least. 

—

Julian is quickly running out of money. Not many people want to hire a witcher without swords, and he can’t get anyone to trust him as to allow him to work somewhere in some field or the other. He left Kaer Morhen three months ago now, and his heart aches for it. He misses Vesemir, misses the children and teaching. He misses his life.

He drinks his ale bitterly, trying to not curse the whole entire elder council of Kaer Morhen. He falls short of succeeding. He thinks back to his last moments in Kaer Morhen. He had been so furious. Still, he doesn’t regret what he did. He would do it again, in a heartbeat. His own freedom and agency are more important than the potential glory and peace he could have gained had he stayed there. 

“Witcher!” 

A hand pounds on the table and Julian groans, looks up. The man facing him is wide, well built. His sharp jawline is hidden by a blond beard, and his eyes are two green sharp jewels. He’s handsome, at least. Julian wouldn’t mind falling into bed with such a man, learning how to pull sweet sounds from his throat. He hasn’t been touched in weeks, and he craves physical contact more than he wants to admit it. 

_Witchers don’t feel,_ a voice at the back of his mind whispers, and he grits his teeth. 

“Not a Witcher,” Julian responds placidly and turns back to his ale. 

“You’ve got the golden eyes of one, and your armour speaks of it too.” The man slides a new mug of ale to Julian. “Here. On me, while we talk.” 

The man settles across from Julian, and the witcher - _no, former witcher_ — holds back a groan. All those who sit are always longwinded talkers who never shut up. But the man’s pretty enough for Julian to not complain right away. Instead, he drinks the ale, and listens to the man as he talks about some monster or the other. 

Julian has lost count of how many beers he has been drinking on his empty stomach. The man — Wilhel, Waren? He can’t remember — has slowly stopped asking about monster hunting and more about Julian himself. The attention is slightly flattering, but Julian doesn’t like talking about his past. A human would never understand the pain of the trials, the worries of the Path. Humans’ minds are too narrow, too constricted to their vision of the world. Julian learnt that long ago.

There is something strange about the man, something slightly off, that Julian can’t quite put his finger on. Maybe his eyes shine a bit too brightly in the dim light of the inn, but Julian is slightly too drunk to really pay attention to it. After all, he can’t be sure that the handsome stranger whose hands have been drifting slowly close to Julian’s isn’t blinking. He can’t be sure that he didn’t miss it. 

Julian is so desperate to be touched, to be held, even under the influence of alcohol, that he doesn’t bat an eye and accepts when the man offers to rent them a room upstairs. His voice is low and dangerous, whispering into Julian’s ear, and it sends shivers down Julian’s spine. He follows the man upstairs, trying to ignore the feeling of _wrong_ in his chest. He has had enough of listening to his heart for the night, enough of reminiscing and missing the only home he ever had. He wants to forget who he used to be. 

“You seem a little tense, witcher,” the man says and drapes himself over Julian as the door closes behind them. “It seems like you need someone to help you relieve the tension.” 

His hands are already working at unlacing Julian’s armour, surprisingly nimble, finding the way it can be taken off easily. When he has removed Julian’s armour, he attacks the man’s shirt, and Julian grins a little, returning the gesture and letting his fingers wander over the man’s torso. He was right in thinking the man well-built; under his thumbs, he can feel the sharpness of muscles and little in the way of fat. It is strange though. Human bodies retain fat to protect their muscles, and muscles often develop in a much less lean manner. 

Julian’s mind is whirling, falling and tumbling into thoughts after thoughts. It isn’t normal. He steps back, immediately reaching for his swords, but they aren’t there anymore. They haven’t been there since he left the Keep. For the first time, he regrets it.

The man he had been touching is grinning wickedly at him, his golden eyes no more jewels but bright fire. His teeth are too perfect, too straight and bright. The feeling of wrongness intensifies in Julian as he realizes who he is facing. 

“Stregobor.” Julian tries to find a weapon, anything could do really, but the room is bare, empty of anything he could defend himself with. “I thought I had left you to die a decade or two ago?” 

“Did you really think you could cut me down?” The mage chuckles, and his glamour shimmers and disappears completely. “You’re no match for me, Julian. Especially not now that you’ve been stripped away from your witcher status.” 

“I walked away from them,” Julian snarls and grabs the chair, hurling it at the mage. 

Stregobor only chuckles again and stops the chair with a careless motion, sending it to shatter against the stone wall. “You were pathetic back then, and you still are today. How sad.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“See, that’s rather unfortunate that I can’t do just that. It doesn’t please me more than it does you to see your ugly face again. Though, I see they tried to improve you at least. New trials, I heard. They make you quite interesting. I would love to study you, but it will have to wait.” 

Julian growls and throws himself at Stregobor, but the mage’s staff hits the ground lightly and he finds himself suspended in the air. He can barely breathes; all the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. 

“I hear you ask, “what have you been up to, old friend”, and I find it rude to not answer.” 

Stregobor settles onto the bed, putting back on the shirt his glamoured self had been wearing. He transforms his clothes back into his preferred robes, and Julian snarls, tries to break free from the spell over him. If only he could use his hands, he could Aard Stregobor and send Stregobor him away, give himself time to scramble a weapon to defend himself with. 

"See, after that rather unfortunate explosion that you caused in my laboratory," the mage starts, smirking at him, "I was in quite the bad shape. Of course, I managed to get myself back on my feet; it isn't any little thing like you that would stop me. So I laid low a little while, travelled around. I found a few interesting phenomenons that I cannot wait to study, and I was well on my way to start with that when one of your old pals approached me. It seems you were quite the reckless man after leaving your den. I heard your dear friend got quite punished for your cowardice too." 

Julian groans, struggling with all he has against the spell. The last time he had affronted Stregobor, the mage hadn't been this strong. And Julian had still been a Witcher. He still had Vesermir's strength to rely on, if he needed it. 

Now, he is all alone.

“Piss off, nobody cares about your story,” he grunts. “And you can tell whoever hired you to fuck off as well.” 

“I did think you wouldn’t understand. You are so…” Stregobor sighs, almost disappointed, and tilts his head to the side. “Lets simply say that your intellect plays against you. Which it wouldn’t be the first time it happens, but that’s beside the point. After all, you did leave your pack behind. Your _mate_ , the poor pup. Left all alone, behind, looking for you always. I would love to study you, your bond to that other witcher… What is his name already? Vesemir, is that right?” 

Stregobor smirks again as Julian moves again, snarling. “Perhaps I shall pay him a visit once I’m done with you. After all, I will have payment to collect from one of your former friends. Roland was quite glad to relieve himself of his coins, if it meant having you out of order. And well. I wasn’t about to refuse the offer, when it mixed pleasure and duty in such a lovely manner.” 

“Fuck off,” Julian growls again, and his throat is squeezed tight again, making him choke slightly. Fuck, he hates mages. He hates Stregobor, and if he could, he would kill him now. 

“I must give you some credit on this, you are stronger than you look. Such willpower… I would love to study you as well, cut you open and see what the mutations have done to your body, to your brain… But it shall await another opportunity, I fear. My employer was quite specific: you were not to be killed. You are to suffer throughout life, never to come back to your home… To wander the Continent alone…” 

As he speaks, Stregobor walks around Julian, and his Chaos weaves around the witcher, sinking into his skin and biting his flesh. Julian refuses to scream, even as pain worse than any he has ever felt tears into him. He feels himself unraveling, being destroyed slowly, as if cut open by a heated knife. He bites clean through the skin of his lips, and blood filters in his mouth, but he barely registers it. 

His eyes burn, so intense that he feels tears pearling and falling from his eyes. Still, he refuses to cry out. He will not give Stregobor - and Roland, the old rotten bastard be thrice cursed - that satisfaction. He is Julian of Kaer Morhen. He will not yield, will not give up. Even if death awaits him, he will not give into Stregobor’s torture.

“Reckless, brainless, and soon, powerless. How sad will your life be, poor Julian. I wish I could take it off your hands,” Stregobor talks loud enough to wake the dead, but in the rush of pain that Julian is feeling, he could swear that it is a whisper. Chaos thrives on loudness, on anger and feelings that explode. In Stregobor, Chaos is a force to not be played with. 

Julian feels himself being drained of any life he had. The heartbeat that had resounded next to his own in his chest disappears, and for the first time in years, he feels alone, utterly alone, as he falls down onto the ground. His hands, once covered in a thousand scars from training and fighting monsters, are blank. There is nothing anymore on them, only smooth skin. Even the calluses that had been there, that had defined him and proven him to be a witcher, a sword fighter, are gone. 

“What have you done to me,” he rasps out, his throat sore from holding back his screams and barely being able to breathe. “What have you done!” 

Stregobor laughs, loud and cruel, and his staff pushes into Julian's back, the end of it almost breaking Julian's skin. "Did you not listen to a word I said? I've been telling you all along; you'll never be a witcher again. You'll never be Julian, the wolf witcher, again. You will only be a miserable bastard, doomed to be human." 

Julian growls and tries to crawl away, to move out from under Stregobor's emprise. This is a nightmare, it can't be real. He can't not be a witcher anymore. What else will he be? Three months out of Kaer Morhen, and he already longs for the warm halls that resonate with children's yells as they chase each other through the keep. Vesemir's laughter sounds in his head, phantom and painful, and Julian clutches his chest, clawing at it, trying to find where the second heartbeat has gone. He needs it, can't bear imagining going through life alone. He has shared his life with someone else since he was fifteen. Now to have emptiness... He would rather die. 

"But I will be kind and compassionate," Stregobor says, removing his staff's end from his opponent's back. "I will give you one chance at getting it all back. If you can find your way back home, if you can find the half of your soul, then you shall be yourself again. Until then, you shall wander our world helplessly, without any hope to ever be yourself again. Oh and don't try to tell anyone about it. It'll be very, very painful. Actually, do try, I would very much enjoy seeing you writhing in pain." 

Julian's heart is beating too fast in his chest. Everything is so... low. There is no more noise coming from underneath, no more heady, almost nauseating scent of ale and people. There is no more signs of who he _is_. Julian is no more. 

Stregobor chuckles slightly and then moves forward. “Enjoy your life, Julian. I hope it won’t be too miserable.” 

Julian groans and tries to stand back up, but a boot connect with his face, and he finds himself in blinding pain, before he slowly falls unconscious. 

There is no more place for Julian of Kaer Morhen anymore. He is just... no one. No one anymore.


	2. Beauty and the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Renfri arrives in Blaviken, she isn't alone. Julian is there with her, and when they meet Geralt, things happen differently... For everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, three days after I meant to post this, here is the beginning of the chapters that resolve around canon, with Blaviken :D We shouldn't have a Julian/Jaskier in Blaviken but :D I like hurting my darlings.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!

Blaviken is bleak, and absolutely boring. It’s an utter shithole, and Julian can’t believe this is where Stregobor would come into hiding. His shaved head feels a bit strange, but he couldn’t stand to see the brown locks anymore. He’ll let it grow back soon, but it has been forty-five years now, forty-five years since he has been haunting the Continent, searching for another wolf witcher, for someone to recognize him. The last time he managed to speak to a wolf witcher, it had been one of the young ones, one of those who had just left when he had started his teaching there. The man had thought him insane for sticking around him, and Julian had woken up alone, in an empty campsite. Ten years since then, ten years of folly and madness. 

“Everything alright, Beauty?” 

He turns his head to see the girl he has been traveling with, a grin on her face. Renfri is beautiful at twenty-three, all brightness and cleverness. She is smarter than most of the people he knows, or has known, he should say. She is as deadly as any witcher. She would have made a wonderful witcher, he thinks with a bit of bitterness. But something else than the Trials had stolen her youth, her life and future. 

“Don’t call me that,” he laughs slightly, his voice a bit broken by a cold he is recovering from. He misses the strength of the mutations every single day. “You know I’ve long ago given up being the beauty of this world.” 

“It’s a pretty good nickname for you though.” 

“Well, then you are my darling Beast, isn’t it? I’ve yet to see you being a real terror.” He smiles a bit, taking a swig of his ale. “Though, you’ve certainly done your best to try and terrify me.” 

“You’re tougher than you look, Julian, I’ve gotta say that. Where did you learn how to handle a blade like that? You never said.”

Julian laughs slightly, tries not to choke on the memories. Hours spent with Vesemir in the courtyard, under Roland’s hard gaze, hours spent being yelled at and laughed at, until he had honed his skills perfectly, until every move had been deadly. 

Forty-five years haven’t made the reality of the curse any easier. He has learnt to accept it, to some extent but he has been looking for an escape, for some way to make it back. If only he could go back to Kaer Morhen, he would be able to be himself again, but he can’t. He can’t remember the way, can’t recall which trails to take up the mountains. His memories play tricks on him, and he has woken up in a fury or sobbing because of that. He is tired of it, tired of having had his life taken away from him. 

“Taught myself, here and there. Had a friend with whom I sparred for a while.” 

“A friend?” Renfri grins slightly, barely hiding it behind her mug. “You make friends, Beauty? Thought you bedded them all.” 

Julian laughs loudly this time, something almost hysteric that starts deep in his belly. “Come on, Beastie. You know better than that. We were both kids, anyway. And it would never have worked with him. We were too damn similar. Too damn proud and too damn young. We got split up anyway.” 

His hand comes to rest on his neck, where his medallion was, where it should be. His pride, his stupid, ridiculous morals, that’s where they had led him. He should have stood his ground and kept fighting, until he had taken down all of them. 

“What happened? That the reason you want Stregobor dead too?” 

Renfri is a curious one, always searching for answers, demanding them. She’s worse than a dog with a bone, when she wants an answer. He hates that he finds it endearing. She’s a bit like him, when he was still young, when he had the world at his feet. He’ll never age again now, not until the curse is broken. Maybe not even then. Stregobor has stolen his life away, what would it be to steal his death as well? 

“No, no for that. Though, it is because of him that I can’t see my friend anymore.” Julian feels the curse creeping on him, slowly pushing at his throat, and the bitter taste of ashes fills his mouth. “He took my life away from me, just like he did with yours. That’s all I can say.” 

He drinks again, and Renfri nods. “You think we’ll get him?” 

“I’m sure we will. He won’t be expecting me. I’ll snuck in his tower and force him to come down. You can have at him afterwards. I don’t care to be the one to bring his death.” 

Renfri grins, eating more of her meal. “I do.” 

They met three months ago, when Renfri’s men tried to rob Julian, and he had found himself disarming them. He hadn’t killed them, hadn’t done anything than cross the blade with Renfri. She is a formidable opponent, and at her age, Julian knows he wasn’t as skilled with a blade as she is. They had gotten to talk, when Renfri had offered to him to join her company, and he hadn’t agreed to their robbing people, but he hadn’t minded traveling with someone again. 

With her wicked tongue and even more wicked hands, she is the perfect candidate for Stregobor to harass and try to break. Julian wants to tear the mage from top to bottom, to rip his spine away from him. But no. He has offered to let Renfri kill him. His resentment has simmered and boiled over long ago; now he is only cold ice, furious blizzard waiting to seize over the mage’s body and split it in half, but even his unrestricted rage doesn’t equal his little Beastie’s. 

It had started as a joke, their beauty and the beast gag. After all, Renfri is much more beautiful than Julian is, and has ever been. There is no doubt there, no questioning to be had. But she always hid away from people while they traveled, kept her face covered, while Julian did not mind being seen. She had been the first one to nickname him Beauty, and the rest of the company had followed suit. Julian is the only one who calls her Beast though. The others have their own nickname for her, Shrike. 

“You have something else up your sleeve, little beast, and I’ll be damned if I know what it is. Will you tell me?” 

“It’s better if you don’t know,” the former princess says, and there is regret in her voice. “If you knew…” 

“I would try to stop you, isn’t it?” He sighs and takes her hand. “You don’t have to do this Renfri. You don’t have to let him… hurt you, anymore. You could get away, get out. I will get him for the both of us, I swear.”

“I need to see him die myself,” Renfri growls slightly. “If he is still alive, what does it matter that I’ve suffered for years because of him?” 

Julian sighs a bit. His little Beast is so full of anger, so filled with rage, he wonders if she will let go of it, even after Stregobor is dead. He wonders what she will do, once he is gone. The question burns his lips, as it has many times before, but he withholds it. It is not his place to ask her, not even if he is well over a century older than her. They are friends, yes, but she is fiercely independent. And if he is honest with himself, he doesn’t think she has any idea of what to do, once this is all over. 

Renfri will never be a princess again. She will never regain her innocence and her naivety. He can see it in her traits, the bitterness that has sunk in so deeply it eats at her bones. He thinks he might be angrier about her situation than his own, if he is honest with himself. He had six decades to come to term with his newfound humanity, and while the anger of being torn apart from Vesemir will never cease, he knows that at least, he is safe and alive, on the Path or still in Kaer Morhen. Renfri doesn’t have anyone to think back to fondly. She has herself, and that’s all there is. 

“You’ll get him.” He says and squeezes her hand. “ _We_ will get him. He won’t stand a chance against both of us.”

She sighs and nods. “Alright, alright. Now, let me get some food, old man.” 

“What, no more Beauty for me? I’m wounded, my little Beast.” 

They bicker playfully for a little while, letting the warmth of the inn pass through their tones. It is nice, to be here, despite the absolute shithole of a place it is situated in. 

Then a witcher walks into the inn, and all goes to shit. Julian has retreated to the shadows by the time he reaches Renfri’s side, and his hood is back over his features, covering him. White haired witcher, with a wolf medallion… His old school. But it has been so long now, he has probably never met this one. He went through the extra trials though, and he survived. Julian wonders how many they tried it on, how many died. Did they do it on his students? He doubts it. Vesemir would not have let it happen, not after Julian gave up his whole life to try and save them. 

“C’mon, witcher. You’re not scared of us, are ya? Show us what you’ve got,” Nohorn snarls and moves forward, but Renfri is faster to snap. 

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?” Her eyes are settled on Nohorn, and the man takes a step back. Everyone knows that Renfri doesn’t take well to dissent within her company. Even Julian wouldn’t go against her.

“Witchers can’t-“ 

“She didn’t talk to you.” Julian steps forward, and he catches Renfri’s surprised look. She knows he doesn’t hang around when there are witchers present. This is about her now though, and there is something she isn’t telling him. “So piss off.” 

The innkeeper stammers a bit, but Renfri is quick to order him to bring three beers. Julian sits back down next to her, despite the wish to bolt away from the inn. There is no point in hanging around a wolf witcher now. Until Stregobor dies, Julian is stuck in this useless, human body. He is stuck behind who he _could_ have been, had the Masters of Kaer Morhen not taken him in when he was a few years old. 

Renfri’s interest in the white haired witcher doesn’t pass by him, but he can see her scheming something, taking into account the presence of the witcher. There is something she wants from him, something she has just decided on, but he will be damned if he can tell what it is. 

“It’s hard to make a living off the main roads,” the witcher says, and Julian chuckles slightly. He isn’t wrong. 

“And you definitely need money for new clothes,” he murmurs under his breath, although considering the snort Renfri gives him and the man’s offended look, Julian is pretty sure that wasn’t as quiet as he wanted. 

“You are?” The witcher looks him up and down, something like dismissal in his eyes. 

“You didn’t do us the pleasure of introducing yourself,” Julian says. “I don’t see why I should.” 

The man grunts slightly, and Julian hates that he finds that slightly attractive. The man is handsome, despite his rather.. unfortunate clothing. And the fact that he smells like the swamps certainly doesn’t help. 

“Geralt of Rivia.” The man grunts, and Julian has a soft sigh of relief for himself. Not one of his kids then. “Your turn.” 

“You can call him Beauty,” Renfri grins, her teeth showing as she does so. “He is our little wonder.” 

“Keep it quiet, Beastie,” Julian growls and jostles her shoulder, but she only throws back her head and laughs some more. 

“Beauty?” Geralt remarks with a frown. “Odd nickname.” 

“Why, do you doubt it?” Julian’s voice falls to a low murmur, and he sees Geralt’s eyebrows draw closer. “I could show you a real beauty if I wanted to, witcher.” 

The word tears a bit at his mouth, but he pushes it through. With each more time he says it, the pain lessens. The first time he had said ‘witcher’ after Stregobor cursed him, his mouth had bled for hours. Now, he can say it and only feel discomfort. He still can’t say that he is one, but one day he will. Or he might die trying, but he will find a way back to Kaer Morhen. He has to. 

“Don’t torment the poor witcher, Julian,” Renfri chuckles and passes an arm around his shoulders. It draws down the hood that covered his face and Geralt looks at him with interest shining in his eyes. 

Julian is about to continue, to grin and flirt, when a girl, maybe twelve or so, interrupts them, and steals Geralt’s attention. _A kikimora_ , he hears her say, and he withholds a smile. The golden experiment of the Masters of Kaer Morhen is just working alongside every other witcher, not any different from them. It’s a sobering realization though. They had made this man, _Geralt_ , suffer through those trials, and for what? For nothing. 

Geralt leaves the tavern, and Renfri throws Julian an amused look. “You decided to get over your distaste for witchers for his pretty mug?” 

“I don’t dislike them,” Julian scoffs, but he knows how it must seem to everyone else. He can barely say the word, and can’t stand anymore to be in the presence of another witcher. How could anyone understand why he has those reactions? “And I didn’t intervene for him. I did it for you.” 

“You didn’t have to,” she dismisses him slightly with a wave, but he sees the thankfulness in her eyes. Not many people have come to help her willingly, without reward at the end. “I was handling it.” 

“I know,” he hums, “but you can never have too much backup, can you? I told you when I met you. I’ll be by your side, my little Beast.” 

She grins, and he smiles back. Having Renfri around, travelling with her, it has been a refreshing experience. He feels like he has found a semblance of family again with her. He likes to think she feels the same way he does. After all, why else would she stick by his side, despite that they only met a few months ago? She likes his company as much as he does hers. 

“Thanks, Beauty.” 

They spend the rest of the day walking through Blaviken, watching the people and watching the tower where Stregobor is hiding. They exchange theories, possibilities as to how get in, but it is mostly a fruitless enterprise. They have so much to accomplish, and so little time to do so. If Stregobor slips between their fingers again, they will have to chase him, _again_. Jaskier won’t have that happen. 

Geralt of Rivia comes out of the tower at some point, and they see him crossing the city and leaving with his horse. He looks deep in thoughts, and Renfri and Jaskier exchange a look. The witcher knows.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Renfri says and stands up from the barrel she had been sitting on while sharpening her sword. “He can be swayed to our side.” 

“Without any offence meant, darling,” Jaskier smiles gently, “you don’t exactly have the best rapport with people. Maybe I should handle it?” 

She frowns slightly, looks down at her sword. “Would Stregobor have told him your story? You told me the bastard probably had no idea that you were in town as well. Isn’t that why you shaved your head?” 

_Partly,_ he wants to answer. He doesn’t want to say that it was also because he couldn’t stand seeing his own reflection anymore, that it was becoming a nightmare for him to see his hair, his face, his _eyes_. Blue eyes that haunt him, blue eyes that follow him everywhere he goes. He exists in shades of blue now, when before he had existed in beautiful gold. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “There is no chance he told a witcher about me. But there is also a chance that talking with him will have you hurt. If Stregobor put a contract on your head and told him you were a creature, he might choose to kill you.” 

“Do you think he would? You seem to know more about witchers than you let on.” 

“I can’t-“ _speak about it_ , he almost says, but he coughs and bright pain flares up through him, blood falling from his mouth. “Fuck. Trust me, please.” 

She examines him carefully, her eyes darting to his hands as he wipes away the blood and spits the rest of it to the ground. He wishes he could tell her, wishes she could know instinctively that this fight, this battle, is as much his own as hers, and that they are more similar than she can understand. 

“Fine,” she rolls her eyes and extends him a square of cloth. “But come back in the morning, at the latest. I have a plan to get Stregobor out of the tower, and if the witcher doesn’t stand in my way, we will be able to kill that bastard of mage.” 

The way she says it all worries him slightly. He would ask what is her plan exactly, but he is afraid of the answer. He doesn’t know if he will be able to handle it. He doesn’t know if he will be able to go on, if he has to oppose her. 

“I’ll be back by then,” he swears and darts forward quickly, pressing a light kiss to her cheek. “Stay safe, my little Beast.” 

Renfri rolls her eyes, but he knows her well enough to see the fondness underneath. She waves him away, and he takes a few steps back towards where Geralt of Rivia left before she speaks up. 

“Be careful, Julian. I don’t want… I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

He smiles slightly and blows her a kiss. “Don’t worry. I can take on a witcher or two.” 

She chuckles and he leaves, making sure the sword to his side is well fastened. Following Geralt’s track is easy; he has retained all of what he was taught before being sent on the Path, and he has been adapting it all to being human for the last few decades. But soon, soon he will be free from the curse, and so will Renfri. Soon, he will have his life back. 

He finds Geralt of Rivia talking to his horse, and Julian resists the urge to laugh. 

“Were you talking to your horse?” He asks as he leans against a tree, the witcher looking at him in surprise. He hadn’t heard him coming then. “That’s pretty cute.” 

Geralt frowns, and Julian can see the way he is going over the compliment in his mind, unused to it. “What do you want?” 

“Come on, don’t play dumb, witcher,” Julian says, ignoring the scorching of his mouth at the word again. “You know why I’m here.” 

“The girl from earlier, Renfri, you are here for her. On her behalf.” 

Julian hums, walks closer, lightly skips over the small water current. “I guess you could say that. I’m here on my own behalf too. She matters to me, the girl as you say.” 

“You two are lovers?” Geralt sounds a bit surprised this time. “Wouldn’t have thought so.” 

This time, Julian does laugh, walking closer and closer to Geralt, who only looks at him with growing suspicion. It’s endearing to see him frown like so, to see his brows furrowed together as he takes in the man walking close to him. 

“Not lovers,” he smiles and winks. “She is too young for me.” 

“You look about the same age.” 

“Oh believe me, I’m much older than I look.” How old is he now? He isn’t sure anymore. He’ll be nearing two hundred years old soon, but he isn’t quite sure when that will be. He hasn’t seen a calendar in years. “But even without that, she’s like a sister to me. We are very similar, her and I, you see.” 

The witcher hums, holds onto his horse’s bridle tighter. “What do you want then? The mage already pleaded his case, should I wait to hear yours?” 

“What’s her name?” Julian points to the mare instead of answering. “Come on, a big, scary witcher like you, what did you name her?” 

There is an instant of hesitation, and then Geralt sighs. “Roach. Her name is Roach.” 

Julian smiles and chuckles. “Like the fish?” He extends a hand to the mare’s head and she huffs but lets him caress her gently. “She’s lovely.” 

Geralt frowns again, something like jealousy settling over his eyes. “She doesn’t let strangers touch her much.” 

“Why, she must be like her master then,” Julian grins and turns back towards Geralt. “Oh come on, stop frowning for a second. It doesn’t do justice to your handsome features.” 

“What do you want?” Geralt asks suspiciously. “Why come here? I doubt you are here to compliment my horse and deal in fake compliments towards me.” 

“Please, as if I would ever fake a compliment. You offend me. But you are right, I am not only here for your pretty eyes and your lovely mount. You spoke to Stregobor.” 

“I did.” 

“So very talkative,” Julian sighs. “I suppose you have a right to know why I’m here. After all, I did follow you, a stranger, into the woods. Anyway. Stregobor told you about Renfri, and told you about her “curse of the Black Sun” isn’t it?” 

Geralt nods along, but doesn’t say anything more. Julian sighs. 

“I see I must do all the talking, very well. Renfri is not whoever Stregobor claims she is. He wants her dead, and he wants to have access to her body. He wants to see what she is, doesn’t even see her as human. He is worse than a monster: he is a perverse old man who rejoice in hurting others. He has hurt so many people and I-“ 

The curse stops him, makes him groans in pain as what feels like a hot knife passes through his stomach. He can’t say anything about being cursed, being hurt by Stregobor, especially not to a witcher. He had forgotten that, in his desperate need to convince Geralt not to take on Stregobor’s contract. Protecting Renfri has become important to him, to the point that he had forgotten that his own life is on the line as he argues with Geralt. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt grabs him as a hot flash of pain nearly sends him toppling to the ground. Julian sinks to his knees regardless, his hands holding tightly onto the witcher's forearms. 

“I’m fine,” he gasps out. “Just a passing illness.” 

“It looks more serious than that,” Geralt frowns again. “Tell me.” 

“Can’t.” Blood trickles from his nose, and he feels himself losing consciousness slowly. Fuck, the curse is stronger than he had thought. 

He falls forward as he loses sight of reality, and only notices that his fall is cushioned by something before darkness envelops him.

Cold water being gently applied to his face wakes him. He groans slightly as he sits up, and two hands on his shoulders stop him, placing him against something soft and firm. 

“Don’t move,” a voice grunts. “You got to rest up.” 

“Who the-“ Julian starts asking, and then remembers. “Fuck.” 

The witcher hums in agreement, and more cold water is pressed around his chin, before a cup is pushed against his lips. “Come on, drink up.” 

Reluctantly, Julian obeys the command, and bitterness fills his mouth. He forces himself to drink it; he knows the old remedy well enough, and he can even remember teaching how to make it, when he had been in Kaer Morhen. It soothes his sore throat, but there is nothing else to heal. The curse only temporarily weakens him, but there is never any serious sequel. Stregobor wants him to suffer the rest of his life, and for it to be long lived. 

Opening his eyes doesn’t hurt as much as he had feared. Night has fallen over the forest, and he realizes that he is now leaning against the witcher’s horse— Roach. The mare turns her head and pushes at his shoulder, and Julian grins a bit. 

“Hello, girl.” He reaches out and caresses her muzzle again, and she huffs slightly. “Thanks for landing me a hand there.” 

“The horse didn’t exactly do much,” Geralt points out from where he is cleaning his cup in the water. 

“She’s doing amazing,” Julian smiles impishly. “Holding me up like this and staying sitting the whole time? You have a properly trained horse, lucky you.” 

The witcher shrugs. “Paid quite a good amount of coin for her.” 

“A good horse is the best thing a traveling man can have,” Julian nods. 

Geralt gives him a strange look. “Someone used to say that to me long ago.” 

Julian looks away. Fuck. It was always Vesemir’s saying, when the kids asked him which weapons were the most useful out of their silver blades. This witcher clearly has known Vesemir. So maybe there is a chance his old friend is still alive then…

“So, you come to find me in the woods, and then you fall unconscious. What’s that about?” Geralt asks, moving closer. “I don’t usually take pity on guys who fall on me.” 

“Yet you did for me,” Julian smiles, sitting up properly and looking at his surroundings. They haven’t moved from the small meadow then. Good, he’ll find his way back to the city easily. “However shall I reward you? No witcher works for free after all.” 

“Start by telling me what you meant, when you said Renfri wasn’t who Stregobor said she is.” Geralt’s face is closed again, his arms crossed. “And try not to get lost in bullshit.” 

“How charming of you.” Julian rolls his eyes. “Fine. She is, well, _was_ a princess. Stregobor arrived at her parent’s court when she was, what, maybe five? She isn’t extremely keen on the details. He had her locked away in a tower, tried to do ‘experiments’ on her, if you catch my meaning. When she was older, her mother sent her, on Stregobor’s advice, to the woods to be killed by some henchman or the other. Renfri has been surviving ever since.” 

“How do you know that’s the truth?” Geralt challenges him, and Julian almost laughs.

“I’ve been looking for Stregobor for more years than you would believe. I know what he is like, and I know what he does to people. I know what he does to kids. Even if I hadn’t met Renfri, I would still be here in Blaviken.” 

“You mean to kill him.” 

“Yes.” 

Geralt hums, looks down at his palms. “Why? Her fight is not yours. What has Stregobor done to you?” 

Julian shakes his head, feels nausea agitate him. “Don’t ask me that now. After, maybe.” 

There is a few minutes of silence between them, and Julian takes that time to look more closely at Geralt. There is something almost familiar about him. But then, Julian thinks that of every golden eyed witcher with the wolf medallion around their neck. He looks for similarities that cannot be there, for a recognition that never comes. 

“How do you know the curse of the Black Sun isn’t real?” Geralt asks, his eyes back on Julian. 

This time, Julian laughs. How naive is this witcher? How young is he, to ask such questions of Julian? Was he taught nothing at Kaer Morhen? 

“Lilith’s servants, that’s what he claims those girls he butchered are, isn’t it? Let me give you one piece of advice, Geralt of Rivia. Don’t trust men who butcher people for the misfortune of their birth. Being born under an eclipse is no curse. Being born should not condemn you to a life of misery and fear and rage.” Julian stands up slowly and walks forward, until he is in Geralt’s personal space, staring at him. He would have thought Geralt was taller than him, but they are of the same height, and their eyes meet easily now. 

“You ask me how I know that this silly curse he invented wasn’t real? I read fucking books. I talked to the families of the murdered girls. I talked to their friends, to the people who knew them. I looked at Renfri, and I listened to her. I know a curse when I see one, and there is none on that young woman. What there is is pain and anger. What there is is a girl who was robbed of a childhood, of a life, by a man with power over her.” 

He is almost yelling by the time he is done, and he pants as he steps away. He turns away, tries to regain control of himself. He hates how much he revealed of himself. He hates how much he gave away, in his desire to protect Renfri. Geralt might not read between the lines, might not realize that Julian is suffering of a different curse. 

“What do you want from me then,” Geralt asks from behind him. “What is it that you are coming to demand from me?” 

“Why should I demand anything from you?” Julian gives him a frustrated look over his shoulder. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want you to do _anything_. Don’t take the contract, don’t kill Renfri, don’t help Stregobor.” 

“Sounds like you are demanding quite a few things I shouldn’t do,” Geralt hums, but his voice has an appreciative tone to it, as if he is enjoying the conversation now. “I won’t kill her.” 

Julian nearly sighs of relief. “I’ll go then.” 

“So you really did come here just to plead her case, didn’t you?” Geralt walks closer again. “Why didn’t she come herself?” 

“Half a chance you’d end up dead,” Julian snorts. “Wasn’t about to have a dead witcher on my hands right before I finally got the mage.”

“And you couldn’t kill me?” Geralt is getting too close now, something amused in his voice. “So what, you only keep dangerous company?” 

When Julian turns around, he is face to face with Geralt, only a few inches separating them. “Don’t presume me weaker than I really am, Geralt. It’s unbecoming of anyone in your position. Don’t you know enemies come in more than one shape?” 

Geralt hums again, low in his throat, and his eyes drop, taking in Julian’s form. “I suppose you are right. You did faint on me though.” 

“And yet, I’m already back on my feet.” Julian grins a bit. “I told you, I’m stronger than I look.” 

“Care to show me then?” The witcher is closer, and Julian feels a bit flustered. He is usually the one to show this kind of attention to people, and he doesn’t understand Geralt’s shift in attitude. 

“What do you want from me?” He asks a bit suspiciously, but doesn’t move back. 

“You wanted to show me beauty, earlier, didn’t you? And I agreed not to fight your friend. I thought…” He withdraws, looks away and shrugs. “My apologies.” 

“Oh, darling.” Julian steps forward, and grabs delicately his face. He places a gentle kiss to the corner of the man’s lips. “If I didn’t have something to get back to, I would show you so much of the world’s beauties.” 

“You said something earlier, something about asking you after?” Geralt steps forward and grabs his hand. “Would you, after, consider… Just, telling me? I won’t ask for anything you don’t want to give.” 

_After_. Once the curse is broken, once Julian is back to being himself… “I’ll tell you.” 

He wants this to be true. He wants to be able to tell Geralt that he is Julian, that he is a Wolf too, that… He wants to be able to tell him so much. But he _can’t_. Not until he has killed Stregobor and broken the curse.

Geralt smiles slightly, something that lightens up his face and makes him seem so young suddenly. Julian darts forward and pecks his lips. 

“The world has so much beauty to show you,” Julian whispers gently as he parts from him. “Don’t forget that.”

Going back to Blaviken is harder than Julian had thought it would be. His mind keeps playing over and over again his interaction with Geralt of Rivia. He can’t deny that he is attracted to the witcher, but when Stregobor dies and Julian regains his true body, there will be nothing guaranteeing that Geralt will be attracted still. Geralt likes Julian as a human, and he likes that a human is showing him interest. He doesn’t want to disappoint the witcher then, but he will explain it to him. 

By the time he makes it back, it is deep in the night. He finds the inn that Renfri and her company stay in and slips into his own room quietly. Renfri is sitting on his bed, biting on her nails. 

“You’re finally back,” she exclaims with reproach in her voice, but she stands up and embraces him. “So?” 

He returns the embrace and sighs. “Geralt won’t take Stregobor’s contract. I told him a bit more about the mage, and he relented.” 

“You look sad.” She frowns. “Why do you look sad? Did he hurt you? I will kill him, Julian, you only have to say the word.” 

“Melitele’s tits, no,” he chuckles and kisses her forehead. “No need to kill anyone, my little Beast. You know I’m quite capable of defending myself in any case. There are just… some things that I know will happen eventually, and I know they will make me sad later on.” 

“Preemptive sadness is not a good look on you then,” she pouts slightly. “You are sure he won’t try to stop us?” 

“Not as far as I’m concerned. He does intend on staying around though, I believe.” 

She frowns at that and sits back on his bed. He removes his sword from his belt and takes off the cloak he wore, removing his gambeson as well, and sighs when he is finally in his shirt and trousers. He comes to sit by her side and she lets her head fall on his shoulder. 

“We will kill Stregobor,” she says with conviction. “And then, we will both be free. Won’t we?” 

“We will. But we both need rest. Tomorrow, I’ll get to his tower and drag him out of there, and you’ll get to kill him.” 

She sighs and lays down on his bed. “Good. I don’t know what I’ll do after that though.” 

“You’ll have all the time in the world to figure it out,” he says gently and brushes her hair, a caring gesture he vaguely remembers from a childhood nearly forgotten. “Whatever you do, you’ll be great.” 

She falls asleep with a smile on her lips, and he follows quickly enough.

The morning comes fast, Renfri shaking him awake only a couple of hours after he fell asleep. Julian takes a couple of minutes to get ready, and meets the rest of her company outside the inn. They are all looking grim, and Renfri does as well. Strapped to her thighs, her daggers look sharper than they have ever before. The sword to her side had been a gift from him; he had spent a fair amount of coin on it when he had realized hers was some flimsy, uncared for sword. 

There is no words that need to be spoken. He nods her head at the company and bows half-jokingly to Renfri, who gives him a teary smile. If something goes wrong, this will be the last they see of each other. The tears prickle at his own eyes. He won’t allow it, won’t allow himself to lose this friend. She is his sister, and he chose to fight at her side. He chose her, and she chose him. They are bound through their hatred for Stregobor, and so much more. 

Julian walks alone to the tower, and he has a quiet moment of celebration as he realizes that indeed, there is no spell stopping humans from entering. Renfri had been unable to, but Julian has seen many a human open the door and pass through. There is something more, the smell of Chaos thick in the air, and Julian smirks. Stregobor might have taken his life from him, but Julian is still a witcher, no matter what. His mind, his blood, it still runs on the same spite and cunning that had gotten him through Kaer Morhen. 

Passing through the portal is easy. The illusion behind it is just as disgusting as Julian had known. Naked women pick fruits, dance together, all for the lust of an old man. Julian doesn’t draw his sword just yet. 

“Who’s there?” Stregobor’s voice resonates in the empty tower, and Julian hides behind one of the pillar. “I know you are here. Show yourself.” 

Julian has no intention of doing that. The door behind tied to a spell that would alert Stregobor of his presence, he had expected. The mage being so fast on his feet, a bit less. He keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword; no point in drawing it now and alerting Stregobor of his presence just yet. 

“I can feel your presence,” Stregobor says again, moving closer to where Julian is, and the former witcher grins. Here it is. “Show yourself, or I will have you dead.” 

Julian draws over his face his cloak, keeping his eyes covered. He had been right in claiming that Stregobor wouldn’t recognize his scent, his presence. How stupid of him. How _expected_ of him. He jumps on the half wall between the two pillars and grins, moving a hand on the small dagger he had taken for this occasion.

“Stregobor, how good it is to see you,” he grins as the mage takes a step back. “You didn’t think I had forgotten about you, did I?” 

The mage uses his staff to send a wave of Chaos towards Julian, but Julian is faster; his dagger flies, and the tip of it breaks open the spherical gem that helped control the mage’s powers. As it explodes, Stregobor shouts, his own Chaos exploding in his eyes and against him, sending him tumbling down. Julian dances on the wall and between the pillars to avoid it, and he gives a smug smirk to Stregobor. 

“Come on, you didn’t think I wouldn’t find you, did I?” Julian’s hood has fallen out of his eyes and he grins. “Don’t you recognize me, old friend?” 

Stregobor staggers to his feet, and when he sees Julian’s sword now pointed at his neck, he flees. He seems to have completely forgotten about his own Chaos as Julian’s chases him, laughing behind the running mage. 

“Do you think you’re getting out of this so easily?” Julian sprints forward, just in time to avoid Stregobor closing the door’s portal. “Always the same tricks.” 

“You should be dead,” Stregobor growls and uses his Chaos this time, but something moves in front of Julian, and he feels a warmth protecting him. 

Geralt is there, steel sword raised angrily. “So this is what you do to people, Stregobor. Try to convince them that the “lesser” evil is to murder someone, when you yourself are out there murdering people and hunting them down.” 

“Geralt,” Julian growls and moves to be by his side, rather than behind him. “This isn’t your fight. Find somewhere else to go.” 

Looking at him with a slight smile, Geralt shrugs. “It’s your fight, and I’ve chosen your side. I want to hear your story.” 

“How touching,” Stregobor snarls and throws another wave of Chaos at them, but Geralt deflects it again. “The wolf and his pup, finally reunited.”

Julian frowns and is about to lurch when a bolt pierces Stregobor’s ankle, making him stumble and almost fall down. With a quick grunt and a spell, he heals himself and turns towards Renfri, who discharges her crossbow and gives it to the man next to her. She draws her sword, and advances slowly. Stregobor tries to send Chaos her way, but she grins, keeps walking forward. 

“Forgot that’s ineffective on me, Stregobor?” She grins, her teeth showing, and when she strikes, Stregobor can only cower and move backward, closer to Geralt and Julian. “Come on, fight!” 

Julian’s sword brushes the mage’s neck as he moves forward, gripping him and pressing the blade against his throat. “Don’t make this so easy for us. We have hunted you down, we can’t end the chase now.” 

He finds himself soaring through the air in a second, and he laughs as he crashes against a stone building, his back creaking and blood filtering out of his mouth. Pain fills him, but he is used to it by now. It is a temporary pain, something that will disappear soon. Stregobor’s curse has rendered pretty much any injuries small, making him more sturdy than any human. It seems that the curse hasn’t yet removed all of Julian’s witchers mutations. 

“Julian!” Renfri and Geralt’s voices, mixed in a cry of worry, and then he is scrambling back up, seeing Renfri fighting with Stregobor, who now has a new staff in hand. 

Geralt joins in the fight, and Julian comes closer. His left hand throbs with pain, and when he looks down to it, he can see that it is broken. His sword is nowhere in sight, but he still runs to the fight. Renfri is as deadly as ever, and she only stops a second to allow him to draw her dagger from her thigh strap, and then she is hitting Stregobor again. 

Against three opponents, Stregobor doesn’t stand a chance. He seems to realize that, but his wicked gaze turns to Julian again, and there are words whispered through his lips, before a sword pierces his heart. Renfri pants, but Stregobor is still muttering in Elder, despite death clinging to him. 

With a careful and powerful motion, Geralt’s sword detaches Stregobor’s head clean from his body, and the magic that had started to take hold of Julian, that was choking him, fades. 

Renfri crumbles to the ground, and Julian does as well, looking at his hands expectantly. Any second now, and the curse will break. Any second and he will be Julian of Kaer Morhen again, and he will be able to go back and—

Nothing. He keeps staring at his hands, keeps trying to feel his heartbeat slow down, but nothing happens. 

He is never going to be Julian again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops ? :D i'll be back by thursday to give the next chapter! Upcoming: Posada ;)


	3. Geasynn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a tavern in Posada, and there a witcher-turned-bard meets a witcher. Or well. Meets _again_ a witcher. Jaskier and Geralt find the Devil of Posada together, and Jaskier is reminded of his past (again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with a new chapter! And this time, we are in Posada... The "first" meeting of Geralt and Jaskier, at least if canon had its say in this. Which it doesn't so here it goes out of the door.
> 
> (I'm tired forgive my bad jokes)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Renfri’s last letter is crumpled in his pocket as he walks into the dingy tavern in Posada. Jaskier has been traveling for the last ten years, sometimes alone, sometimes joined by his sister by choice. The former princess had become a witcher, to Jaskier’s greatest joy and regret. He had inspired her to do so, but at the same time, he had felt the deep shame of what he did. 

After Blaviken, she had travelled with him through the Continent for a year or so, and she had been the one to rename him. The first time she had called him Julian again, he had yelled and raged, had thrown his sword at a tree and crumpled in tears. It had been the only time he had allowed himself that kind of behaviour, and he had deeply regretted it the following weeks, but Renfri had never made him feel ashamed of it. On that evening, she had taken him in her arms and had cradled him like a child. She had taken care of him, and after that, she had called him Beauty, always. 

That is, until she had come up with Jaskier. They had been camping in a field of buttercups and dandelions, and he had amused himself with the flowers, braiding them in a crown for them. She had looked radiant, her smile so wide and her eyes so happy, as he had crowned her. 

“That’s it,” she had said, seizing one of the buttercups and pushing it behind his ear as he crafted his own flower crown. “Buttercup. That should be your name.” 

“Come on, buttercup?” He had snorted and jostled her shoulder with his own. “Who would take anyone named Buttercup seriously? I certainly wouldn’t.”

“Not like that,” she had rolled her eyes at him, and smiled lightly. “Jaskier. It means buttercup in one of the old northern language. Small enough that people wouldn’t recognize it, but you’ll know it!” 

“Why ‘buttercup’ though?”

She had shrugged and looked away. “It reminds me of you I guess. You know, resilient, growing everywhere and… I don’t know, they are sweet and pretty, just like you. And hellebores are a type of buttercups! So deadly, you know? Just like you.” 

It had stuck after that, her calling him Buttercup and Jaskier. Subsequently, all the letters that she has relayed to him have a pressed buttercup on the sealing, and all the letters he sends to her have a pressed geranium. He had picked her new name as a witcher. Pelargonia. She had laughed too when he had told her that it meant ‘gentility’ and ‘determination’, had joked that she would need a flower that meant anger and bloodshed, but he had held her hand and smiled. She had been gentle with him always, and her determination was not to be tested. 

So they had stayed this way. Jaskier and Pelargonia, Buttercup and Geranium, Beauty and Beast. They have many names they can call each other, and they know each other better than anyone else out there in the world. 

Jaskier can’t even say that Vesemir or any of the other Wolves might know him well anymore. The whole Continent had heard of Kaer Morhen’s Sacking by some peasants, led by a few angry druids and mages. It had happened three years after Blaviken, a year after Renfri had gone through her trials. Only a handful of mostly young wolf witchers remained, and Jaskier has absolutely no idea if those are his former students or not. What he is sure of is that Vesemir is gone. None of the wolf witchers who have been seen on the Continent since then fit Vesemir’s description. Jaskier has stopped asking. 

He had fallen into music and gone to Oxenfurt Academy after a meeting with Renfri a few years back. She had been showing him some of her new scars, grinning as she recounted to him her adventure with a baroness a few months prior, when he had heard the music being played. The viol had been delicately handled, the melody haunting as every string had been teased, and the man playing had been absolutely beautiful. Valdo Marx had been twenty five, and he had swept Jaskier off his feet thoroughly. 

Despite Renfri’s warning that Valdo could not be trusted, Jaskier had wanted to forget himself in a romance for once. He had registered into the university’s musical program after a few months playing an old lute he had gotten at a miserable price from a seedy merchant in Novigrad. Oxenfurt was as beautiful as he remembered it, and he had learned to love music, to love something about himself again. He had spent over forty years miserable, believing that he could be a witcher again, but since he had met with Renfri and since the incident at Blaviken, he had slowly started to allow himself a new life. 

Romance had been written out when he had caught Valdo and one of their professors fooling around after class. Jaskier had been furious, but he hadn’t abandoned music regardless. It had become too much of his identity, too much of himself by that point. So he had poured all his heartbreak, all his fury, into his music. He had come out of Oxenfurt with a title of Master of the Seven Arts, and he had felt, for the first time, that he really had a life ahead of him. 

Since then, he has been traveling through the Continent again, sometimes on his own, sometimes with Renfri, playing music. Most of the songs he plays in public are not his. People prefer songs by popular singers, and Jaskier prefers to play for himself, and on occasion his sister, the songs that mean something to him. 

The new lute he bought a month ago sits next to his chair at the tavern, in the case he had spent a little fortune on, and he is eating his fill and drinking some well deserved ale. The trail to the tavern, to the whole town really, isn’t easy, and he is starving. He has barely eaten half his meal that a loud voice calls out to him, disrupting his peace. 

“Bard! Sing us something!” 

“My good man,” Jaskier turns to the villager who accosted him, trying to smile pleasantly. “I’ve traveled a long time and need some rest, but I would be delighted to sing for you later in the day.” 

“Get off your fancy arse,” the villager grunts and kicks Jaskier’s chair. “Come on, sing something, and not one of those fucking high and mighty songs from those too high n’ mighty bards at the courts of fucking kings and shit.”

Jaskier is starting to feel a bit pressured, people grunting in agreement with the man who is now standing menacingly behind him. He could definitely get out of there with a few broken noses and some broken pots as well, but he is trying to not draw attention too much and not get in too much trouble. He had sold his last sword to buy the casing for his lute, which means that he is now weaponless, besides the daggers Renfri had gifted him all those years ago. 

“Of course,” Jaskier’s smile is fake, but none of the others can tell. “I’ll play you a personal creation then, an original! Shouldn’t be too high and mighty.” 

Muttering a “hopefully” under his breath, he fishes out his lute from its casing and smiles at the smell of wood and strings. He loves his lute, loves playing and seeing people tear up. Well. It probably won’t happen here, considering that the crowd seems hostile and they are demanding a new song. He certainly isn’t about to play one of his most intimate songs, one of those he has barely shared with Renfri. So he picks a cheery tune and starts moving around. 

The first song goes well enough, some people turning away in disinterest. Three more songs pass like this before he picks one of his least polished songs. It’s a rough draft of a song, barely even thought through, but he has been yearning to talk about the monsters he had hunted, the stories he had heard from fellow witchers… This is one of the only way he can still connect to his past without the curse trying to suffocate him and kill him. 

The last song he sings, before insults and vegetables of all kind start flying towards him, is not one of his, admittedly. However, despite the unfortunate ending of the song, it does allow him to see someone he recognizes in the corner of the tavern. 

Geralt of Rivia, the so-nicknamed Butcher of Blaviken, the witcher he had fled from with Renfri. He had left the man behind with no answers, and even today, some shame curls in his gut at the memory. He had promised to Geralt that he would talk with him after Stregobor was dead, but when he had realized that the mage’s death hadn’t lifted the curse, he hadn’t been able to look at the other witcher without feeling rage bubbling up inside him. 

It hadn’t been rage against Geralt. Rather, it had been directed towards the whole universe, towards magic as whole. Most importantly, Jaskier had hated himself for believing that he could ever go back to the life he had before. How naive he had been. 

He advances towards the witcher, snagging a cup of mead from a passing waitress, and leans against the wooden pillar. 

“I love how you just sit in the corner and brood,” he grins slightly. It might be the worst line he has ever used, but he has a lot to make up for towards Geralt, so might as well start small. 

“I’m here to drink alone.” Geralt barely glances at him, and Jaskier frowns. He would have thought the witcher would have more to say than just that. Maybe Geralt hasn’t gotten a proper look at him yet? 

“Alright, well, everyone has picked some words to describe my performance, but not you. You’ve got to have something to say, don’t you?” Jaskier sits down across from Geralt and smiles. Maybe now that they are face to face… “Come on, three words or less?” 

Geralt grunts, looks him over, but still no recognition. “They don’t exist.” 

“They— what?” 

“The creatures in your songs. They don’t exist.” 

Oh, Jaskier could laugh. Or maybe cry. Geralt talks as if he knows all of the world, as if he has fought against every monster this Continent has to offer, but he doesn’t know the half of it. So many monsters have died out, or hide in nests far away from civilization, feeding off on wild animals or, occasionally, each other. Jaskier may have travelled to the edge of the known world to admire them a few years ago. 

Geralt stands up, and Jaskier does as well, grabbing his sleeve. “Wait, I’ve got-“ 

“What do you want?” Geralt snarls. “I’m not your friend, and we don’t know each other. Leave me alone.” 

He doesn’t recognize him. Not at all. Jaskier lets go of his sleeve and Geralt walks away, but the reality of the situation comes crumbling down around the bard. Geralt doesn’t recognize him, and after all, why would he? It’s been twenty years, and Jaskier has changed since Blaviken. So has Geralt. Jaskier’s hair has grown back, almost curling around his neck now. Geralt survived the Sacking of Kaer Morhen. They are two different people from when they had first met in that thrice accursed town. 

Jaskier is so focused on his own thoughts that he barely notices Geralt taking on a contract. When he does notice that the witcher is leaving, he goes to grab his bag and gets the information he needs from the man who was talking with Geralt, and then he runs. 

He catches up with him outside of Posada, and he grins. 

“Need a hand?” 

“Go away.” 

“So fucking polite,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, well aware that Geralt can hear him. “Come on, give me some credit. I got two hands and I’m not half bad at fighting.” 

“Fighting what, flies?” Geralt snorts and keeps walking, holding his horse’s bridle. “Go back to singing, bard.” 

“You really are a charmer,” Jaskier answers. “Come on, witcher. You’ve got a reputation to clean up, don’t you? And who better to do that than a bard? You wouldn’t be known anymore as the Butcher of Blaviken with me around.” 

Geralt stops and turns around. His eyes are narrowed and he makes a small ‘come here’ gesture before following with the words aloud. The former witcher is no idiot though, and he shrugs. 

“I don’t like the moniker any more than you do, Geralt of Rivia, but you’ve gotta admit that it doesn’t help you get contracts. You are pretty recognizable after all.” 

“What would you get out of it,” Geralt’s eyes are even further narrowed, but still no recognition. Good. 

“Fame? Probably a fair amount of coin as well. And traveling with a witcher is guaranteed to keep me safe.” 

“Thought you knew how to fight?” Geralt turns around, but he looks back towards Jaskier and indicates to him to walk with him. 

“There is knowing how to fight, and being reckless. Better be two and have a horse if we come across bandits. It’s not like they are a rare occurrence around those paths, and I lost my sword recently.” 

Once again, Geralt grunts, and Jaskier takes that as an agreement. He keeps chattering as Geralt leads his horse — and how original, she is named Roach as well — through the sandy paths that surround Posada, and towards the mountains.

“Dol Blathanna,” Jaskier mutters softly. He has been avoiding places with strong magical connection, and the words in Elder are almost scalding in his mouth. Right, the curse, still affecting anything that has to do with his witcher abilities. He had been one of the best at understanding, deciphering Elder… He had spent a couple of months with the elves, after all, living amongst them and learning their language and customs. He had been so young then, barely thirty, full of ideals and dreams. 

“You know Elder Speech?” Geralt frowns and keeps walking, having tied Roach’s bridle to a tree. “Surprising, from a bard.” 

“I studied it in Oxenfurt,” he lies smoothly. It has become so easy to him now, twisting the truth, making it fit around the curse that blocks him and stops him from screaming out. “Graduated top of my class, I’ll have you know. One of their brightest students, they said, and—“ 

“You never shut up, do you?” There is a hint of amusement in Geralt’s voice, as if the bard’s ridiculous behaviour entertains him ever so slightly. That’s something at least. 

“A bard that doesn’t talk, have you ever heard of that? Come on now, let’s look for this devil. He must be around here somewhere.” 

“Devils don’t exist,” Geralt says as he turns around, looking away. “They are myths.” 

“Right,” Jaskier rolls his eyes while the witcher isn’t looking. “Obviously. So, what is it we are doing here then? Admiring the pastures? I don’t know about you, but it’s looking somewhat desolate to me.”

“You’re impossible,” Geralt sighs and turns back to him, annoyance clear in his eyes. “Sometimes there is a monster, sometimes there is money. Rarely both. Now shut up and start looking for tracks.” 

“Quite cynical aren’t you?” Jaskier is saying when he gets hit by a small pebble and frowns. “Well what the fuck?” 

“What is it?” Geralt walks closer and then gets hit by a pebble as well. “Shit!” 

Jaskier turns his head only to receive a bigger projectile at the back of his skull. He falls forward, unconscious. 

When he wakes up, he is in a small cave, tied to something — someone? Geralt, he realizes as he hears the witcher grunt. 

“A dashing start to our adventures together,” Jaskier mutters, trying to move his hands. “Any idea how to get out of those restraints?” 

He can no longer feel his daggers in his pocket, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Renfri’s latest letter is gone too. He grunts as well and struggles further. He needs to get those things back, everything and everyone else be damned. He won’t let anything happen to Renfri if because he was careless. 

“This is the part where we escape,” he moves again, jostling Geralt again. “Come on, get moving!” 

“This is the part where we get killed!” Geralt whisper-shouts. “Now stop fucking moving!”

“Fucking easy for you to say,” Jaskier hisses between his teeth. “Fucking—“ 

“ _Shut up_!” A voice shouts from the darkness of the cave, and it takes a second for Jaskier to realize that this is an elf speaking, an actual, living elf. He hasn’t heard of one living here in over a century, and relief floods him. Not all the elves are gone from Dol Blathanna. 

“ _We aren’t looking for any trouble_ ,” Jaskier tries out, answering in Elder. There is little chance that this will work, but who knows. He has done crazier things in his day. The elf doesn’t step out of the shadows, so he switches back to the common tongue. “We mean no harm, let us out of those bonds!” 

“ _Shut up, humans_!”

“ _No humans here_ ,” Jaskier snarls, and pain ripples through him. He chokes on his breath, and blood and bile come back up, burning through him. The pain is atrocious, tearing him apart, but he has survived it before. He will have to be more careful in the future, but if he can just keep going, just a moment more… 

The elf in the shadows finally steps out, her eyes intrigued, but her guard still up. She has a dagger in her hand and her face is set in a snarl. Jaskier can’t blame her. The Great Cleansing… 

He hadn’t been able to go help the elves. He would have, should have, but Stregobor had stolen his identity merely a year before that, and Jaskier had still been commiserating the loss. Shame and guilt build up in him, and he wants to cry, to beg for forgiveness. Those people had welcomed him when he had been young, had taught him their language and how to use it best, they had taught him so much in a few months, and in their time of need, he had abandoned them. 

“What the fuck are you telling them,” Geralt grunts. “Keep your mouth shut!” 

“You might want to try politeness at some point in your life,” Jaskier snaps back. “I’m trying to keep us alive, not that it seems to matter to you.” 

Geralt growls, but doesn’t have the occasion to keep speaking. A Sylvan comes out of the shadow, holding Jaskier’s precious lute, and he snarls at them. Peaceful creatures in most case, this one seems to have a grudge against Geralt. Even with the little knowledge he has of Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t find that hard to believe. 

“A bard and a witcher,” the elf speaks in the Common Tongue this time, clearly wanting Geralt to understand what she is saying. “Is that who the humans sent to kill the last of us? Pathetic! And liars too.” 

She kicks Jaskier in the stomach, and he grunts, folding on himself. The pain from before hasn’t subsided just yet; he gasps, trying to bring back air into his body, but he is struggling. Damn his body, damn the weakness of it and the way it keeps betraying him. If at least he could age and die, or simply die, it would be so much easier. 

Stregobor must not have intended this, because his curse ensures that Jaskier stays alive, suffering but alive, and that he keeps the youth that he had when he cast the curse. By now, even as a witcher, he should have started aging, growing grey over the temples at the very least. But no. His face retains its youth, and his hair stays brown, always brown. He has nearly dyed it so many times, but could not bring himself to trick himself in doing it. 

“Leave off,” Geralt snarls, “he’s just a bard!” 

Jaskier would protest the statement, but he is still reeling from both the curse’s affliction and the kick he received, so he can only spits some blood. 

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe,” the elf is getting more and more worked up, and she reaches for the lute, tearing it from the Sylvan’s hand. “You don’t deserve to use this land’s resources! You are all thieves and murderers!” 

The lute crashes against the wall, and Jaskier keens a bit. His precious new lute… It will take months for him to manage to find another one of such quality. 

“Your people took everything from us,” she growls and gets closer to Geralt, only to end up being hurt. 

Jaskier can’t see well what is happening, sitting where he is behind Geralt, but the elf staggers back into his vision, and she seems pale. Blood filters out of her mouth a second before she starts coughing, sending more blood flying into the air and onto her hand as she clutches the wall with the other.

“What’s wrong?“ Jaskier tries moving forward, but is quickly tugged back in place by his restraints. 

“She’s sick,” another voice says, coming from where Jaskier is guessing an entrance is. “My people have been dying since we have been driven away from our land by yours.” 

“ _I’m sorry,_ “ Jaskier bows his head, trying to take control of the guilt twisting inside him. “ _Your people did not deserve this, and my companion and I did not know it was you the villagers feared._ “ 

“ _So you say true,_ “ the elf crouches down in front of Jaskier, peering into his eyes. Behind them, Geralt is grunting and talking, but neither Jaskier nor the new elf say anything to him, or pay him any attention. " _There is truly no humans here. A Witcher... and a cursed one. You seem familiar._ " 

Jaskier gulps, opens his mouth to speak, to explain himself, but pain twists him, makes him groan in pain and keel over. 

" _You are sick too,_ " the new elf remarks, right as Geralt shouts out to them to leave him be. " _Your companion does not know._ " 

" _Can't know._ " Jaskier coughs out, and he can feel the pain get stronger. 

" _Do not say more, cursed one_ ," the elf says gently, and there is a gentle hand on Jaskier's cheek, a touch of delicacy and gentleness. The touch of a king, Jaskier realizes. 

"Filavandrel," he breathes out, eyes widening. 

" _You know of me,_ " the princely elf answers. 

"You mind speaking something everyone can understand?" Geralt grunts. "Not all of us speak Elder here."

"You mean you don't speak Elder," Filavandrel says as he stands back up properly. "Your companion was explaining to me that you were no threat to my people. Does he speak for you as well?" 

"Who the fuck are you?" 

"For the love of the gods, Geralt, be polite for a minute in your life!" Jaskier growls. "I assure you, it won't kill you." 

He doesn't add the "I might", but he hopes the witcher can use his common sense and understand it without hearing the words. 

"I am Filavandrel, king of the elves of Dol Blathanna. And as charming as this little exchange is, we cannot let you live. You are a danger to my whole people."

"So you're going to kill us? Very kingly if you," Geralt snarls, and Jaskier is going to murder him on his own if the white haired Witcher doesn't shut up. 

"Only you. Your companion has proven himself worthy of our trust." Filavandrel moves to face Geralt, and Jaskier hears the unsheathing of a dagger. His hearing might be human now, but there is no mistaking the sound of elven metal sliding out of its sheath. He had an elven sword, once. 

"Wait," Jaskier says, before Geralt can say something even more stupid. "I'll vouch for him!" 

Filavandrel stops, and Jaskier cranes his neck to meet his eyes. The elf is looking shocked, and Jaskier sighs. He knows what this means, knows what he just said is more than what it seems. 

Elven customs are old, and they are rooted in Chaos and the easiness they have for wielding it. Vouching for someone isn't simply putting your honor in the line with them; there is a bound that links the voucher and the vouched for, not quite magic but a bit like a blood oath. Until Geralt proves himself worthy of the elves' trust, Jaskier will be the one to take on all the consequences. What's one more curse to take on, after all?

"You are willing to risk your life for the witcher," Filavandrel asks, stepping around. "You trust him this much, _Geasynn_?" 

_Cursed One._ Filavandrel has named him this, is giving him a new name for elves across the Continent. A name that gives Jaskier away. He won't be able to say it, not ever. Mentioning the curse only leads to more pain. He can't even utter the word 'curse' if he speaks of himself. Even in a story, in a song, he cannot weave his own despair. He is alone, and Filavandrel's nickname for him only more of that.

"I do," Jaskier answers with a nod. "With my life." 

The king of Dol Blathanna hums slightly, and he takes his dagger out. "No need to vouch for him then. No more pain needed for you, _Geasynn_." 

Jaskier could cry of relief when the ropes are cut.

They are walking out of the mountains, back to Posada to collect payment after Geralt negotiated with the elves that they stop stealing from the villagers, when Geralt starts talking again.

"What did you tell them?" Geralt is riding Roach next to Jaskier, and he is looking at him curiously. "They trusted you. Filavandrel gave you a nickname, didn't he?" 

Jaskier chuckles, and hopes the sadness of it doesn't come through. "He did. And I simply told them the truth: we didn't want to harm them, it was simply a mistake." 

“What did it mean, the nickname? _Geasynn_ , right?” Geralt’s voice is curious, the witcher’s demeanour much more open than it had been before. 

It’s a nice change, Jaskier must admit. It reminds him of the Geralt he had met in Blaviken. The Geralt who still had been hopeful and playful, who had seen a stranger and had wanted to know what it was like to be touched by him. Jaskier has only found Geralt again a few hours ago, and yet he misses the Geralt he had met in that accursed town.

“I’m…” Jaskier sighs, looks away. He can’t say it. He cannot reveal the curse, cannot even allude to it. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Did they not teach you Elder Speech in your witcher school?” 

“Kaer Morhen, that’s where I was trained. Didn’t they teach you that at Oxenfurt?” 

“They did not,” Jaskier smiles and strums the lute Filavandrel had gifted him as they had parted. It’s a beautiful instrument, delicate and clearer than any he has ever heard before, and he can feel the need to create something building up in him.

It’s one of the only nice things his new life has provided, along with Renfri. As a witcher, Jaskier had been there to destroy, to kill or talk his way out of situations. He was paid for being a killer, not an entertainer. He isn’t sure he doesn’t miss it, though. It’s a bit strange, to be missing the hunts, but there has been nothing that equal the thrill of following a monster’s tracks, of freeing a wraith’s curse… Playing the lute, singing, it’s his new way of enjoying life, but it doesn’t have the appeal of the world he had been forced out of. Not yet, at least. 

“Why do you even want to travel with me?” 

“I told you already, fame, coin, recognition… No more Jaskier the miserable bard.” 

“So what, you’ll be Jaskier, the witcher’s dog?” Geralt snorts. “Not quite a nice moniker for you.” 

A puff of laughter escapes Jaskier and he grins up at Geralt. “Well, you might not have manners, but you certainly have a sense of humour. I don’t give a shit about what people think I am toward you. They could think I’m your whore, your pet, your fucking horse for all I care. Once I start singing and playing, they’ll recognize me for who I am, not who I am _to you_. I don’t need you to make a living, but it would be more exciting to do so, wouldn’t it?” 

Geralt is giving him a strange look, a bit intrigued and mostly surprised. “You are more than you seem, aren’t you?” 

“If only you knew,” Jaskier laughs. “So, it is settled. I’ll travel with you.” 

As he is known to do, Geralt grunts, and Jaskier hums in response. It might be painful in the future. but at the very least, Jaskier will have the chance to see a wolf witcher again, with some regularily. He’ll have to make sure that Geralt and Renfri don’t meet too much, but it should be alright. Wolves and Cats aren’t known to be the friendliest of relations. 

He’ll have to include this adventure in his next letter to Renfri. But for now… He strums his lute again, and starts humming a tune, before starting on the words. 

The witcher besides him sighs, but doesn’t say anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D The boys are travelling together ¬u¬ 
> 
> No cliffhanger this time, what a relief uh? :3 Won't be like that always... ;)


	4. Misery Loves Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Banquet of Cintra is an opportunity that Jaskier cannot pass upon, not even if he runs into old friends that he would rather never see again. Or well. He doesn't exactly know how that would affect him, if they did see him... So rather than test it out, he enlists Geralt's help and goes to the party of the decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, yesterday: I can't wait to post OtF's new chapter !! 
> 
> Me today: got too busy watching Gravity Falls' finale and forgot to post
> 
> Me: :0 
> 
> On a more serious note, this is a very fun chapter, I hope you will all enjoy it! It goes with canon mostly, so some scenes of the episode are merely glanced over 
> 
> Oh and also, I nerded out over Skellige again because uh. I'm gay and pirates? :D 
> 
> Enjoy!

The tavern is captivated by the man’s tale, but Jaskier is getting a bit bored by the details. 

“And the beast, I swear, it swallowed him whole! Not a bite left of the White Wolf!” 

_And you left him to his presumed death, coward._ Jaskier doesn’t say this aloud, he wants to be paid damn it, but he is pretty sure the meaning gets across when the man whitens a bit. 

“Had to run for my life, master bard! The monster, it was coming after me,” the man — some merchant named Seamus maybe? Jaskier didn’t really pay attention — defends himself.

“Yeah, yeah.” The bard rolls his eyes. “What happened after?” 

“The witcher, well, he…” Maybe-Seamus hesitates, looks down. "He died." 

While everyone in the room gasps and mutters amongst themselves, Jaskier laughs, clear and loud. The man's description of the beast had been crude and barely gave anything for Jaskier to identify what it was exactly, but still. Jaskier has known Geralt long enough now to know that there is little to no chance that Geralt died from that attack. 

In the seven years they have known each other, Geralt had proven himself to be an extraordinary witcher. Stronger than any of the Elders of Kaer Morhen ever had been, stronger than Jaskier when he had still been Julian. Following him around on hunts has proven marvelous, both for Jaskier's inspiration and for his own personal gain; the thrill he had been seeking and missing, the way he had felt left behind from his old life... he has found it all again by following Geralt. 

“He’s fine,” he shrugs when he has calmed down, lifting his shoulder and letting it fall, amused. 

“You must not understand, Master Bard,” the merchant repeats, looking saddened by the very thought of repeating it. “The White Wolf’s dead… He was swallowed whole by the beast and—“ 

The door slams open and Jaskier barely looks up, only continuing to note down the tale he had been listening to. It might make a worthy ballad, if he tweaks it… He’ll have to ask Geralt his opinion, but he doubts he’ll get more than grunts and thoughtless hums. Geralt is an expert at that, letting Jaskier hanging for his every word. It’s truly frustrating. 

Jaskier isn’t blind to the fact that he is still attracted to Geralt. There are many moments during which he has wanted to tell Geralt who he is to him. That they have met in Blaviken, that Jaskier had stolen a kiss from him… That he wouldn’t mind stealing a hundred more kisses. That there is still within him this beating desire, this realization that Geralt is as beautiful as he is kind and gentle. 

Geralt has changed since Blaviken, but there are still traces of the young witcher who was chockfull of ideals. They have stopped in villages before, and Jaskier has seen Geralt play tag with children, has seen him lift them and make them laugh, when their parents would allow him. There are multiple times he has watched Jaskier with a strange light in his eyes, almost on the edge of recognition, before looking away, the moment forgotten. Deep inside, Jaskier firmly believes Geralt is still seeking someone who will see him for the beautiful and gentle soul he is. Jaskier will make him realize that someone is already seeing it. 

“What’s that stench?” A man exclaims, disgusted and stepping away as Geralt steps forward, to the table Jaskier is sitting at. 

The merchant visibly pales next to the bard, and Jaskier grins. Good. Let him be disgusted. Jaskier is still furious he had left Geralt like this, when he could have helped, or at least tried to help. The people who run away like this, those cowards and treacherous bastards don’t deserve Geralt’s time, but Geralt is happy enough relieving them of their coin, so Jaskier makes do with them as well. Coin is coin, and a warm bath with a bedbug-free room isn’t cheap. 

“Selkiemore guts,” Geralt grunts, and gestures at himself. “I’ll trust you don’t need more proof that I did the job. I’ll take what I’m owed.” 

Jaskier hums, starting on one of his most popular songs. One that Geralt hates, simply because the tune is so catchy he has heard it all around the Continent. It’s not one of Jaskier’s finer works, he has to admit, but it’s definitely his most widely known. He would despair about that, but he can’t quite find it in himself when it has brought him so many stays at inns and other establishments, where he has been offered to perform.

The man gives Geralt, or more exactly slides towards Geralt, a pouch of money, and judging by the weight of it when Geralt lifts it, it must be well over a hundred coins. Jaskier tries to remember what was the rate of selkiemores when he was the one hunting them. He had maybe gotten two hundred coins, at most, if the beast had been mistaken for something else. Still, he had often made more money back then by skinning animals he had trapped and eaten, and selling their pelts to villagers. The odd sword and other snaps of metals he found on bandits who had tried attacking him also brought back quite its fair amount of coin. Truly, a Witcher’s trade might have been monster hunting, but their revenues mostly come from the side effects of their activity. 

He is a bit relieved by the amount of coin Geralt is being paid, if he is honest with himself. A selkiemore cut down by witchers before might have brought in less money, but for a little while, since Jaskier has started traveling with Geralt on and off in fact, the pay have gotten better, and Geralt doesn’t need to haggle half as much. That is an extremely good point for him, since he was a terrible negotiator. Too honest. If Vesemir had known him, he would have adored Geralt. 

The song finishes being yelled by the whole tavern, and Jaskier smiles, takes a bow, before leading Geralt away. His hand falls on selkiemore guts and he groans. Great, now he’ll have to clean his whole doublet as well. A shame, he had been starting to think he could wear it for the banquet. 

“You’re welcome,” he grins up at Geralt. “I’ve made you famous, and I’ve made you loved.”

“You did shit all, that’s what you did,” Geralt grunts, but he allows Jaskier to stir him towards the bar. “What are you even doing here?” 

“I have my own methods of tracking you,” Jaskier shrugs. “Have to keep close to my money maker, don’t I? And after all, we are friends. And I desperately need a friend about now.” 

“We are not friends,” Geralt orders himself an ale, but his words are tired; a litany he has repeated himself often probably, something to keep him safely tucked away from humanity. He is truly lucky Jaskier is as tenacious and determined as he is. 

“You’re like a fucking weed,” Renfri had commented a few days ago when they had last met. “Always there, and before anyone knows it, they’ve grown attached to you.” 

“Then I guess my name really does fit me, beastie,” he had answered with a teasing smile. 

“I chose well,” Renfri had chuckled, and then they had started telling tales of their latest hunt together. 

“Sure we aren’t,” Jaskier answers Geralt and pats his arm again, before grimacing. “You need a serious bath, and I’m pretty sure you need to burn your clothes.” 

“Leave my clothes alone.” 

“Well aren’t you chatty today,” Jaskier sighs and grabs Geralt’s ale, drinking some of it before extending it back to Geralt. The witcher rolls his eyes, but he drinks anyway. They are well past being shy about sharing food and drinks, after all. They have shared bedrolls, for all the gods’ sake.

“You’re either about to ask me for coin or for a favour,” Geralt growls. “I’m not in the mood to listen to one of your riddles, so spit it out already.”

“What, and cut the pleasure of listening to your charming voice? That would be a shame.” He catches Geralt’s harsh glare and rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. An opportunity has opened for me, and you, my dear sir, are coming with.” 

“Piss off, bard,” Geralt rolls his eyes and gets his mug filled again. “I’m not coming with you to any of your fucking fancy parties and all that shit.” 

“What, you would deny yourself free food, entertainment, and my wonderful presence?” Jaskier grins a bit. 

“I told you. I’m not coming with you. Find someone else to save your ass.” Geralt starts to move away when Jaskier whistles, making him turn back and snarl. 

“Again, your manners are lacking.” 

“You just whistled me like a dog,” Geralt snaps. 

“Well, you are a wolf, aren’t you?” Jaskier chuckles and half-bows. “My apologies, master witcher. Should I grovel at your feet now, or can that wait until after you’ve gotten free booze and free food? Without speaking of the women of the court, who will all fawn over you.” 

Geralt walks closer again, until they are both barely a breath away from each other. It would be so easy, Jaskier thinks, to steal a kiss here and now, to bite those lips he has only tasted once, over twenty five years ago. It would be so easy, but it would also be so _wrong_. Jaskier only steals kisses from willing partners, and Geralt has barely shown himself a willing traveling companion. Though, Jaskier is pretty sure he is starting to grow on the witcher. _Like a fucking weed_ , he hears Renfri’s voice in his ears again. 

“What the fuck did you do, Jaskier? You aren’t asking just for my company, I bet.” 

Jaskier grins. He has won this battle, like he always does with Geralt. The White Wolf simply needs someone who stands their ground opposing him, someone who doesn’t back away when the wolf in Geralt bares his teeth. Jaskier has never been afraid of Geralt, and he finds him rather adorable instead. 

“Let’s get you a bath running, you stink, and I’ll explain everything. Of course, I’ll give you some coin in exchange. After all, a witcher doesn’t work for free, and your time is money lost on a hunt not done.” 

“Could have started with that,” Geralt rolls his eyes and turns away. “Which way to your room?” 

Jaskier orders a bath to be brought up to the communal bathing room, and he turns to Geralt. “Oh you are not putting a foot in my room until I’ve gotten all the selkiemore guts out of you. You do know your hair is supposed to be white, right? It shouldn’t be this strange shade of grey, and well. Red and black now.” 

“I’m pretty sure I know my mutations better than you do,” the witcher sighs as he lets himself be stared away. “I can bathe myself well enough on my own.” 

“I’ve seen the results,” Jaskier says with a dramatic sigh, “And I would rather avoid you looking like a ruffian who hasn’t seen a bath in months when I’m singing at the Cintran court.” 

“You’ve been invited to sing there?” 

Jaskier grins at the slight surprise and admiration in Geralt’s voice. Until now, he has been avoiding the big courts, has been avoiding singing in too well-connected crowds. If someone recognizes him, he doesn’t think the curse will let him speak to them. The elves… They hadn’t known him. They hadn’t known what curse exactly afflicted him. So their compassion, their kindness, the curse hadn’t rejected. But people he knew… 

Regardless, it’s been over seventy years. Most of the humans Jaskier knew are dead, and if not dead, old enough that they wouldn’t remember him. Non-humans won’t show up at Queen Calanthe’s reception; it’s well-known she hunts elves, and there are few non humans who would want to be willingly seen at her court. After all, there is no telling if the Queen will decide them worthy of living or not.

Jaskier has heard rumours and tales about Queen Calanthe. A fierce warrior, who had won her first battle when she had only been 12 years old, with a mind of steel and abysmal manners, but who was adored by her people. He doesn’t know what to think of her. He knows her kind, knows that type of person. Her arrogance and her stubbornness can lead her to turn to paranoid madness, to a life of secrecy and anger, as well as it could lead her to become brash and disbelieving, dismissing advices as long as she believes herself in the right… Jaskier doesn’t know what she will think of him, but he also has to settle on his own opinion of her. 

Not for the first time, he wishes Stregobor’s curse had erased all his memories, all of the things he had loved and lost, gone from his brain, would be a relief. It would also be easier for him to simply enjoy the life he has picked up now. Here is the beauty and the cruelty of his affliction; he cannot forget, cannot erase those instincts. Endlessly, he is bound to be a witcher, when that path has been closed to him. He is his own laughing stock, and he half wishes they hadn’t killed Stregobor in Blaviken. The bastard would have deserved to be tortured until he could not have even begged for mercy anymore. 

He shakes himself from his thoughts as he realizes that Geralt is staring at him strangely. 

“Got lost in the glory that surely awaits me,” he grins widely, and shoos Geralt to the end of the room, where a small cot waits. “Undress yourself and lay down there. I’ll be right back, and take off _all_ your clothes. Understood?” 

His instructions having been received with an eyeroll and a nod, Jaskier runs to his room and grabs the bundle where he keeps his oils, perfume and other products. Another one of life’s pleasure he has been learning to enjoy in the last three decades since Blaviken. He doesn’t pick out anything right away. Rather, he grabs the whole bundle before running back to the communal bath, only stopping to get a few items of clothing as well. 

Geralt has undressed and is laying down, completely naked as the bath is being warmed and installed a bit further away. His body is covered in scars, littered all over his muscles, some of them still beating red. Knowing the witcher, and knowing how witchers are taught, he has probably bought into the idea that he should not care for himself past necessary. It had enraged Jaskier when he had been a witcher, but now he would be ready to burn down a whole city to punish the first person who declared that witchers were not persons, but killing machines that only needed the bare minimum to survive. He would wreck their neck, break their bones, and make them cry for mercy.

“At least you aren’t half bad at taking orders,” Jaskier remarks, and Geralt glares at him. _This is good_ , he thinks to himself. It’s better for him to tease and poke fun at his friend than to think about how much he wants to kill for his sake, how much of his life he would be willing to hand over. “Come on, relax. You are all tense, and you get cranky if you don’t get a proper rest. Since I’m stealing you away for the night, I thought I’d help with some relaxing.” 

Geralt looks at him suspiciously as he puts down the bundle he had picked up next to him. “What are you planning?” 

“Now, now, that wouldn’t be quite fun if I told you right away, would it?” At his friend’s unamused expression, Jaskier laughs. “You’re so easy to rile up, darling, it almost takes the fun out of it. I’m going to tend to your wounds and make sure your muscles aren’t pulled or chaffed. A light massage will do the trick. Most of the grime was on your clothes, so I would rather we do this before you take your bath. After all, it will take a bit more time for it to be full and warm.” 

“You are going to massage me?” Geralt’s voice is disbelieving and he attempts to sit up, but Jaskier pushes him back down. 

“Yes, and there is nothing you can do about it. You’re going to enjoy it and for once forget about everything bad. Just think about my hands on you, and that’ll be all, alright? You just tell me if it hurts you.” 

Geralt grunts, which Jaskier takes as an agreement, and he takes out of the bundle a few oils. He smells them carefully, trying to decide which one would be the best. Lavender would keep Geralt relaxed through the evening, but the scent remains strong, which Jaskier knows from experience can be unbearable when one has a fine nose. Honeysuckle oil would remind him too much of his potions, and any other oils Jaskier uses from time to time would be too strong a smell to massage Geralt’s body with. The only one that would do the job is the chamomile oil that Jaskier hoards like a small dragon.

It had been a gift from a lover, who had wanted to soothe his pains when he had sought her out after a few hard months of traveling. She had been a gentle girl, Alena, with doe like eyes and red hair that cascaded down her back in thick waves. Even if he had had to leave her, for she was demanding more of him than Jaskier would give to anyone ever again, he would keep fond memories of her. 

He picks the bottle and pours some oil into his hands, warming it up between his fingers. When he applies his fingers to Geralt’s back, the witcher is still tense, his muscles stiff and his hands gripping the wood underneath him. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says gently, his fingers already working at the knots underneath the skin. “Trust me, for once. Let me help you.” 

The witcher grunts, and turns his head slightly towards him. The golden eye that peeks at Jaskier is full of doubts, but there is also an awe that makes Jaskier ache again. “You know what you’re doing?” 

Jaskier doesn’t answer verbally; instead, he pushes his fingers into the muscles, finding easily where he needs to work first, and Geralt lets out a small noise of pleasure. He is quick to shut his mouth and hide his face again, his hair falling over his head and hiding him completely. 

“No need to be worried,” Jaskier chuckles, seeing his friend’s ear reddening a bit. “I won’t tell anyone that you enjoy massages from me. Wouldn’t want to destroy the pristine reputation I spent hard years building up.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer, so Jaskier continues his work. It’s enjoyable, more than he would have thought it, to be massaging Geralt. Every few moments, Geralt lets out a pleased sigh, and his body is coming more and more undone under Jaskier’s touch. He has to resist the urge to lean in and place a trail of kisses down the man’s back. That is definitely not a friendly thought, and Jaskier has resolved to not get his heart involved too much since Oxenfurt. 

It takes about half an hour for Geralt’s breathing to have slowed down enough for anyone else than Jaskier and other witchers to think that he is asleep. It’s a high sign of trust that he is quite this relaxed, and Jaskier hates to disturb his peace.

“Geralt?” Jaskier trails his hands back to the witcher’s shoulder. “I’m done. You can get your bath now.” 

The man hums and stretches as he sits back up. Jaskier doesn’t avert his gaze immediately. He has seen Geralt’s near-naked form more times than he can count now, and while none of those times were in a bed coming undone under his hands, Jaskier knows how to appreciate a man’s beauty. Of course, Geralt could do with a bit more form, a bit more roundness that would show he is living comfortably, but the Path is unforgiving, and finding a proper meal is hard most days. 

Jaskier grabs the last bucket full of hot water as Geralt settles in the bath. His friend hasn’t had the chance to lean back against the bath’s side that the bard empties over him the bucket. He grunts, and Jaskier hides his laughter. 

“Your hair is a mess,” he informs Geralt as the witcher glares at him. “You need to wash it.” 

“You were much nicer a few moments earlier. I suppose this is when you finally tell me what kind of shit you are going to throw me in?” 

With a gasp, Jaskier splashes some water onto Geralt’s face. The man splutters, but there is the hint of a smile peeking around the corner of his lips. “How dare you insinuate that I would put you in shit willingly? I am nothing but your loyal friend.” 

“‘Friend,’ uh? What kind of friend enlists my help without even telling me what it’s about further than the location?” 

“Why, your very best friend in the whole world,” Jaskier grins and tosses the witcher a bar of soap. “Rinse yourself, Geralt of Rivia, for I’ve got a whole evening planned for you, and you’ll need to be cleaner than you’ve ever been for the Cintran court.” 

Geralt grunts again, but he does start to scrub himself clean again. The chamomile oil shimmers slightly under the soft candlelight, and Jaskier’s heart tightens slightly. How could anyone not see in this man kindness? How could anyone ever believe that Geralt could be capable of anything but goodness? 

_Well, when he isn’t being a complete idiot,_ Jaskier muses as he watches Geralt trying to use the bar of soap on his hair. 

“What do you think you’re doing, you big oaf, damage your hair further than the monsters have ever done?” 

“I’m washing my hair to go to your fucking party, wasn’t that clear enough?” 

A deep sigh escapes Jaskier as he grabs the bar of soap from his friend’s hand and tosses it back into the water. “What would you do without me, I wonder. Lost as a kitten without its mother, that’s what you’d be like I believe.” 

He moves back to the bench where Geralt had been laying down and looks through the bundle, easily finding the oils he uses for his own hair. Most of them are scentless, and they should fit Geralt perfectly, at least for the night. Maybe it would be worth it to invest in some proper oils for Geralt as well, considering the witcher’s lack of care for his own self. Jaskier’s heart aches again; had he stayed in Kaer Morhen, had he accepted they sacrifice the boy with their trials, would he have been able to teach Geralt as well, mold him into a proper, well loved and well loving, man? 

There is no use thinking about that anymore. A witcher no more, a professor only in the arts, Julian the witcher died in Blaviken alongside Stregobor. Now, only Jaskier lives, and he is bright and loud now, Jaskier the bard. He almost forgets who he used to be, sometimes, and it feels like a blessing. 

“You are agitated. What kind of party got you so nervous? You are more at your ease in crowds than anyone else.” 

Geralt is looking at him intently, and Jaskier swallows, walking back to the tub and pouring one of the oils he just brought back into his hands before massaging it onto Geralt’s scalp. The witcher allows this, tilting his hair back. 

“I’m fine. Now that I’ve got you under my spell,” he grins and Geralt huffs, “I can finally tell you where I’m taking you. Princess Pavetta of Cintra’s betrothal feast is happening tonight, and nobility from all over the Continent is coming. There are rumours that even the an Craite of Skellige have sent some of their family members.” 

“The whole fucking world is here, I get it. What do you need me for? You’re worse than a peacock, you should be gobbling all those important people’s attention like the grandest of meals.” 

Jaskier scoffs and tugs on the long white hair as he washes the guts and blood away. “I appreciate your flattering thoughts about me, Geralt of Rivia. However, I am bringing you because while this is sure to be interesting, this is also sure to be ripe for anger and resentment. I would rather not have a knife stuck in my back by the end of the night.” 

There is a silence as Geralt washes himself and Jaskier focuses on his white hair. It is silky underneath his touch, and he fishes out all the monster bits and throws them in the bucket. He doesn’t want to admit to himself how much he loves Geralt’s long hair. The white stands out beautifully against his perpetually black armour, and his witcher eyes only serve to make his face further more otherworldly and beautiful. 

_Damn it, Jaskier. He is your_ ** _friend_** _, stop thinking about him like this. You’ve gone well past the limit where you could allow yourself to have a temporary fling with him. Stop those reckless thoughts._

The silence stays, a comfortable weight that wraps itself around Jaskier’s shoulders as he helps Geralt get cleaned up. 

“Why are you even going there,” Geralt finally asks as he finishes getting grime off from his legs. “Sounds like it’s more trouble than it’s worth, and pretty headache inducing as well.” 

“Crowds are always entertaining to watch, and royal crowds pay handsomely. If I can secure a contract with any of the lords, to sing at their courts for the winter, our next year together won’t be as tight as this one.” 

A hum comes from behind him, and he hears the water splashing as Geralt stands up. Carefully, he doesn’t turn back. He is afraid, he realizes. Afraid of his own reaction to Geralt, afraid that if he doesn’t keep his distance it will be too late for him to stop himself from falling in love. 

“So that’s what you do, during the winters? Play at courts, fill your purse, eat your weight in rich and warm meals?” 

Jaskier starts chuckling, and then abruptly stops. He can’t tell Geralt how he truly spends his winters. Holed up with Renfri in a house near Oxenfurt, both of them catching up on all they have missed during the year. It’s something they have only started doing since he started traveling with Geralt; before that, they met up on the road every few months or so, and she went back to the Cats for her winters, while he travelled around and looked for people willing to listen to his ballads and songs. They are both equally glad for this new ritual between them. Besides one witcher, Renfri doesn’t particularly likes her School, and Jaskier needs that time with his sister. There is nothing better for him than to sit beside a fireplace and listen to her tales as she braids her hair. 

Geralt is looking at him strangely, and it’s only then that Jaskier realizes that he hasn’t answered properly. “No, I usually go back to see my family. My sister usually is the one I see though.” 

“You’ve got a sister?” Geralt frowns, stepping out of the bath, still out of Jaskier’s sight. “You never mentioned her.” 

“She is a lot busier than I am,” Jaskier evades the question. “Let’s get you dressed up now.” 

A grunt of agreement answers him, and he grabs the clothing he had put aside earlier. 

“Jaskier. Where are my clothes?” Geralt’s voice is rough and slightly panicked, and Jaskier grins. 

“Probably being thoroughly washed by now. I brought you spares anyway. There is no way you are going to a royal ball without dressing properly, especially if you’re accompanying me. I’ve-“ 

“You’ve got a reputation to maintain, I know,” the witcher growls and snatches the underwear and shirt that Jaskier is extending towards him. “Did you have to take bloody everything?” 

“Considering the amount of guts and blood and non-identified bits on them, yes. You’re lucky I didn’t ask them to be burned. They were absolutely disgusting. When was the last time you even washed, Geralt?” 

The witcher grunts. “I don’t need you to treat me like a child.” 

Reassured by the ruffle of clothing that tells Jaskier his friend is no longer naked, the bard turns back and grins cheekily. “And yet, here we are.” 

Much later, Jaskier wonders why exactly he hadn’t listened to Geralt and not gone to the bloody banquet. 

It had started _almost_ without a hitch. Just a small hiccup when he had realized that Mousesack was there. Just seeing the druid had made Jaskier want to throw up, so he had fled Geralt’s side before the man could catch a glimpse of him. There had been a couple of expeditions during which he had met with the druid, although most of those had been in Skellige, alongside the an Craite or Turseach. The current generations of an Craite was none that Jaskier knew, although he had kept an ear tuned to news coming from Skellige. He had always loved it there, but he hadn’t had the heart to go back since his cursing. 

After that, Geralt had gotten recognized pretty fast, but Jaskier had stayed in the shadows, until he had started singing. After that, he had not cared anymore who saw him. He knew that when he sang, when he entertained the people around him and threw their way his smile and charms, no one could recognize the witcher he had been. He was too bright, too shiny, too _human_.

And then Duny had showed up. The cursed knight and the beautiful princess, a tale for the ages. Jaskier knows, even now as he stares at the screaming Pavetta, that this would be a ballad that everyone would eat up, would beg for. This would be an easy way for him to make some money, and he could feel the inspiration rising through him as Geralt cast Axii to calm down the girl and force her back down. 

“Do you believe in destiny now,” Eist Turseach asks Queen Calanthe as she looks at her daughter in awe.

Jaskier watches as the queen gives a half-scathing, half-fond look to the Skelliger, and then she is stepping forward and embracing her daughter, warmly and unabashedly. It is strange, from the warrior to the mother, the shift is almost imperceptible, something kind and sweet now in her demeanour. The former witcher doesn’t like the Queen much; she had been too proud of her killing of elves, too happy with herself for murdering people, but he can admit that she doesn’t seem like half the bad mother, once she has gotten over her distaste for the non-human. She would absolutely hate him, if she knew who he really is. He had, after all, had a few run-ins with one of her ancestors, although those were of a much more pleasant sort. 

He doesn’t hear the words she speaks to her daughter, but he sees the relief spreading on the young princess’ face. How young she seems in that moment, looking at her mother with her large green eyes. This is all so wrong, Jaskier hates it, but he can’t step in. There is something bothering him, something tugging at his conscience, but he can’t figure it out.

Calanthe turns to the assembly after this, keeping her right hand on Pavetta’s own joined hands. “Destiny has spoken! And I have listened. The Law of Surprise will be honored. Pavetta will marry… Lord Urcheon.” 

There is a surprised silence from the audience, and Jaskier watches Geralt trying to step back, to move away from the centre of the attention, but everyone is staring, almost glaring. The silence shifts towards an angry, outraged one. People had expected the Princess of Cintra to marry a powerful lord, at the very least, not a cursed half-human beast. 

“React poorly and you won’t just face the Lioness, you will be facing the sea hounds of Skellige.” Eist Turseach has stepped forward, placing himself right besides Calanthe, his hand steady on his sheathed sword. “Queen Calanthe has agreed to my proposal of marriage.”

This time, the surprise leaves place to a roar of joy from the crowd, as Calanthe looks at Eist again. For the first time this evening, a true smile graces her lips as she nods at him, and he gives her a fond look back. At least, Jaskier thinks, those two are truly a match.

The vows take place, and Lord Urcheon is bound to Pavetta, Eist to Calanthe, and Jaskier is about to go off on his merry way, when Geralt sends everything even more to shit. Urcheon’s curse has been lifted, and the young man is handsome as he extends a hand towards Geralt, who is retreating. 

“You’ve saved my life,” the man says. “I must repay you.” 

“You’re proven yourself to be the kind of man who would do the same,” Geralt shrugs, starting to walk away. “I need nor want nothing from you.” 

“I cannot start a new life in the shadow of a life dept, Geralt of Rivia,” Urcheon grabs Geralt’s shoulder. “You’ve gifted me the greatest joy in my life, this must be repaid.” 

Jaskier can see Geralt hesitating, casting an almost desperate glance all around the room, and then sighing. “Then I… I claim tradition as as you have, the Law of Surprise. Give me that which you already have but do not know.” 

The Queen roars before Jaskier can yell out as well. “What have you done, witcher?” 

The bard is well inclined to ask the same thing. How can Geralt be so foolish? How can he invoke the Law of Surprise mere moments after seeing the havoc it could bring? Jaskier is going to throttle his friend and create a thousand songs just to make him. Be damned the White Wolf, saviour of men and friends to beasts, Jaskier is going to make him the Fool of Rivia.

Geralt is halfway through a thoughtless attempt at pretending he won’t get anything from Urcheon, when Pavetta throws up, a hand to her stomach. 

“Pavetta!” Both her mother and lover cry out, but it is Calanthe who reaches the princess first. 

“Are you ill?” She caresses her daughter’s forehead tenderly, and then something goes across her eyes. “You are pregnant.” 

The young princess looks ashamed as she nods, and Calanthe sends a scalding look to Geralt, who is already turning his back and gathering his sword from where it had been sent away by Pavetta’s scream. Jaskier follows suit, or at least attempts to do so. 

A hand on his elbow stops him, and he finds himself looking at the new King of Cintra, Eist. The Skelliger is taller than he is, looming above everyone else in the crowd, as does his nephew, Crach an Craite. His eyes look at Jaskier, almost steely in determination. 

“You are friend with the witcher.” He doesn’t ask, simply states. “Get him to take away what he just did.” 

“I can’t,” Jaskier shakes his head. “It’s not possible. The Law of Surprise means that destiny tied Geralt and the baby growing in Pavetta. There is nothing either of us can do to change that.” 

“You’re knowledgeable, for a bard.” Eist examines him. “Get him to come back then. Calanthe will not be reasoned with if she decides her grandchild will not go with the witcher.” 

“Try as I might, I have little influence over the fool.” Seething escapes Jaskier’s voice and he forces himself to calm down. “The Queen will have to accept that Destiny is stronger than any living being. She is the ruler of us all, and a cruel one at that. The child and Geralt’s paths are tied now, and denying that bond will only lead to disaster.” 

Eist lets go of his elbow and sighs deeply. “Thank you, bard.”

“Start by calling me Jaskier, your Majesty,” the bard smiles slightly. “I will come back. Even if Geralt doesn’t… If the Queen permits it, I would like to know about the child. After all, a life bound to a witcher with extraordinary mutations, with a mother who shows powerful abilities, it is undoubtedly going to be something worth seeing.” 

“Jaskier, then. I will see with my Queen if she will agree. But perhaps you are right. Someone in the witcher’s life should know about the child. And there is no one better than his companion for that, short of the witcher himself.” 

Jaskier bows and nods. “If you wish to reach me, I spend winters near Oxenfurt, in Redania. Simply send a missive to the Academy, and it will make its way to me.” 

The Skelliger nods as well and lets him go. Jaskier dashes in the direction that Geralt had taken after that. He is halfway through the corridor that lead to the banquet hall when he collides with someone. When he looks up, he realizes that it is Mousesack. 

The man is staring at him as if he has seen a ghost, although there is no clear recognition in his eyes. Jaskier can feel his curse simmering, waiting to send pain through him were he to try and say anything that would make the druid realize who Jaskier used to be. 

“Do I know you,” the druid asks, looking at him still, his eyes searching all over Jaskier’s face, trying to latch onto familiar features. 

“No! You don’t!” Jaskier takes off running again, ignoring the surprised noise that comes from the druid. 

When he finally finds Geralt again, the witcher is readying his horse to leave. 

“I thought you’d stay there, enjoy the rest of the feast,” Geralt grunts. “Isn’t-“ 

“How daft,” Jaskier starts shouting before Geralt can finish his sentence,” do you have to be to invoke the Law of Surprise right away? You couldn’t ask for payment of any sort, no, you absolutely had to go with the Law of Surprise. You absolute idiot, have your masters taught you nothing? Are you still a child, to believe that your actions have no consequences? You have bound this child to you and you to them, and now you are fleeing!” 

Geralt grabs him by the collar, his face torn in a snarl as he pushes Jaskier against the wall. “I will not answer to a bard who keeps putting his own life, and those of others, at risk, only for a good song or two! Your arrogance and your oversized ego can go shove themselves up your ass. I will do as I please, and you will shut up about it.” 

“I am not your dog,” Jaskier snarls back, and he pushes Geralt back with as much strength as the witcher had used against him. Around Geralt, his strength, the one he had gained from years of training and years on the Path, returns, and he doesn’t want to think about what it means. “You will not order me around and treat me like lesser than you simply for my profession. I am your friend, and I am telling you you are making a mistake.” 

“By insulting me? You are a piss poor excuse of a friend,” Geralt snaps back. “This is all your fault!” 

“How fucking mature of you, blaming another for your mistake! Go back inside and fix it, talk with Pavetta and her husband, with Calanthe and Eist. Be involved in the child’s life, don’t abandon them.” 

“Not the witchers’ way,” Geralt says and moves backward, back to Roach. “And don’t fucking lecture me, bard. I have seen worlds before you. You are what, twenty five? You know nothing of the world.” 

He gets atop his horse, and Jaskier growls. “Don’t you fucking dare leave.”

“I’ll do what I please, and you do that as well. Farewell, Jaskier.” With that, Geralt kicks the side of his horse, and the mare takes off at a trot. 

“Coward!” He yells after him. “You’re nothing but a coward, Geralt of Rivia! Destiny will punish you.” 

He stays behind, on the steps of the Cintran palace, and he holds the sobs in his throat. Fuck Geralt, fuck witchers, fuck Stregobor, may he be cursed in his death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I know I said not every chapter ends with a cliffhanger but like :) sometimes I gotta 
> 
> (sorry tho jsdhs) 
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed, leave a kudos/comment! You can find me on Tumblr (@saltytransidiot) and now on Twitter as well (@SoftWitchering) since I finally caved in and got a witcher twitter account lmao
> 
> See you all next thursday :')


	5. Broken Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the disastrous banquet in Cintra, Jaskier does not seek out Geralt, until they find each other again in Rhinde. The Djinn is not what either of them is expecting, and harsh words are spoken... Harsher actions happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back folx! 
> 
> This chapter is, as you might have guessed, the Djinn-incident chapter. And boy. I did not shy away from it, so if descriptions of blood and pain are difficult for you, then be careful reading this chapter! 
> 
> But also, very good news: Renfri makes another appearance! And she's a disaster gay, just like her brother, and i love her _so much_. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter :D

“You miss him.” It’s a statement, not a question, and the tone in which it is said is compassionate and yet still manages to be chiding. 

Renfri doesn’t do questions very much nowadays, but she doesn’t do chiding anymore either. Her eyes, gold and slit like a cat, mark her as a witcher, and she keeps under her chemise the Cat medallion. There is a scar cutting across her cheeks and through her mouth, but rather than giving her face a misshapen aspect, she is even more ethereal for it. Her hair is short again, barely reaching her ears.

Last time Jaskier had seen her was at the end of winter, when she had set off again on her Path, and he had stayed at Oxenfurt for a few more weeks before setting off on his own way. 

“I don’t,” Jaskier protests weakly, but the fact that he didn’t have to ask who she was referring to is enough of an answer. 

“You do,” she insists and grabs his hand. “Come on, Beauty. We swore that we would tell as much of the truth as we could, remember? Don’t lie to yourself, Jaskier.” 

“After what he said, what he did, I sure as all hells don’t miss him,” Jaskier withdraws his hand from her grip and crosses his arms. “He was rude, an absolute asshole and-“ 

“Yet you still love him.” Renfri sighs gently. “You’ve spent two years heartbroken in Oxenfurt, a city you swore you would not stay in without me anymore when that bastard of Valdo Marx hurt you.”

“I was teaching young minds and educating them in the delicate art of storytelling!” 

“Bullshit, you were avoiding going back on the road and meeting back up with Geralt again.” 

“I was not!” Jaskier glares at his sister and she sighs again. “Just because I decided to settle down for a bit-“ 

“Jaskier.” She says this seriously this time, looking at him over her cup. “You love him. It’s alright to admit that. The first time we met him in Blaviken, when we left, you were eaten by guilt at leaving him alone. You already wanted to protect him back then. Since you met with him again, it has only grown. Don’t deny it, I know you well enough.” 

There is no point in denying it, anyway. At this point, Jaskier is pretty sure Renfri is the only person in the world who can read him like an open book. There used to be Vesemir before, but since his cursing, and then the Sacking… The Wolf is dead, of that Jaskier can be certain. He doesn’t even dare to hope, anyway. Why would he? Everyone else has been destroyed. 

“Fine. So I love him, what of it? I can assure you, he doesn’t return the feelings, and I would rather avoid the embarrassment.” 

“What has gotten into you, Jask? When I met you, you were fearless. We faced a mage that wanted both of our deaths, and you threw yourself at him with more ferocity than even I could have mustered. You obtained a master of the Seven Arts title to spite a man who wronged you, and you have established yourself as one of the best bard of the Continent- don’t mention Marx- but since Cintra, you have been withdrawn and afraid of your own feelings. What is it about Geralt of Rivia that makes loving him scare you so much?” 

How does he answer this? How does he say that the feelings he has for Geralt are almost overwhelming, that he has rarely felt so much tenderness for anyone who wasn’t of his family, but that he can’t act on them, can’t keep thinking those dangerous thoughts, all because of Stregobor’s curse? Wolf witchers, no matter how much Jaskier seeks them out and yearns for their company once again, are out of reach for him. He can be friends with Geralt, can make his reputation one of glory and pride, but he cannot love him. 

Renfri studies him. As a witcher, Pelargonia is terrifying, her hands deadly and her eyes angry, but as Renfri, she is tender. When Jaskier looks at the woman who might just as well be his sister, he wonders if he made the right choice, by telling her to be a witcher. She thrives in this position, loves the monster hunting and the fighting, enjoys the way most people fear her and curse her. She had joked once that they treated her better now than they ever had when she had still been Princess Renfri. Cat witcher Pelargonia commands respect and an awe tinted with fear. Princess Renfri had only drawn sorrow and disarray. 

Her eyes turn away from him after a while. 

“Drink with me? De Stael left me, again,” she sighs and gestures toward the innkeeper. “Said I was nothing but a vagrant in the end, and she should really focus on her life with her husband.” 

“You deserve so much better than her,” Jaskier pats her hand, glad at the change of subject. “She was never going to give you the attention and the love you deserve.” 

“You’ve said that about all the women I’ve dated,” Renfri points out dryly. “Are any of them ever going to meet your incredibly high standards?” 

He snorts. “If I can love Geralt of Rivia, I assure you my standards are falling at rock bottom. I’m just protective of you, my little beast.”

“Not so little anymore, Buttercup.” She smiles and drinks her ale when it gets there, before sneaking a flask out of her pocket. “Vodka?” 

“Not White Gull?” He grins and extends his own ale, watching her as she pours the strong alcohol in his mug. “I’m surprised, witcher.” 

“Can’t exactly poison my brother, can I?” She winks and pours some of the alcohol in her own drink. “A drink, to doomed love.” 

“To doomed love,” Jaskier answers sombrely and hits her mug with his own, sighing deeply before gulping most of it down in one go. 

After that, things get blurry for Jaskier. He follows ale with ale, and Renfri leaves him to go on a a contract, leaving her half empty flask on the table. She bends down to kiss his cheek as she gets up and whispers something in his ear. 

“You should check out the river, I’ve heard a certain White Wolf is roaming the riverbanks.” 

Jaskier pretends he doesn’t care, pretends he doesn’t hear what she has to say. After all, he _is_ drunk. He could very well not have heard her. He could just go to sleep in his comfortable bed, which is probably infested with bedbugs of all sort, and not care at all that Geralt of fucking Rivia is around where he is. After all, Geralt was very clear on that. They are to do whatever they want, on their own. 

Fuck it. 

Jaskier stumbles to stand up, holds himself on the wall as the room spins a little. He leaves largely enough coin on the table to cover the drinks he had, and probably enough to pay for everyone in the tavern as well, and then makes his way out. The fresh air outside helps him sober up a bit, and he knows he recovers from his drunkenness faster than human, albeit still slower than witchers now. The curse that afflicts him is strange, tethering him to a human’s life but still letting him taste the benefits of being a witcher. 

The walk towards the river is the hardest part of it. The world seems to roll and shake, to want him off his feet, and he stumbles a few times, almost falling down. It takes half an hour for him to find the riverbanks, and by then he is mostly sobering up. He is still tipsy, alcohol still pumping through his veins, but he follows the flow of the river. 

He can’t exactly explain to himself, whether it be his intoxication or truly what he is seeing in the water, but there is a dark pulse there, something that beats alive, angry and ancient. He follows the trail of it, simply because he knows that, wherever there is stupid dangers, there is ~~his~~ the witcher he has taken to travel with. 

He almost giggles of satisfaction when he is proven right, and he leans forward against a tree, humming some vulgar song that the tavern’s bard had been singing when he left. Mediocre, that bard, but the tone had been catchy at the very least. 

“Geralt,” he calls out, taking out his flask and drinking some more, giving himself more courage. “Hello. What’s it been, months? Years? What is time, anyway, you would be right to ask. I heard you were in town, thought I would give my regards to the White Wolf.” 

The witcher doesn’t even turn towards Jaskier, and the bard resists the urge to yell and insult him. _Breathe, Jaskier, breathe_. 

“You’ve always been so polite, you really haven’t changed, have you?” He receives a glare for that and only gives back a triumphant grin. Here. He’s got his friend’s, no, _Geralt_ ’s attention. After Cintra, Jaskier isn’t sure where they stand. “How are you doing,” I hear you ask.” 

“I didn’t,” Geralt grumbles, but he nods at Jaskier this time, and there is an almost relieved light in his eyes. As if he, by some miracle of fate and destiny, had missed Jaskier just a tenth of what Jaskier had missed him. 

“I shall tell you regardless. Studying at Oxenfurt was dreadfully boring, did you know that?” He sips at the near empty flask again, savouring the last bits of alcohol burning his throat. He should have replenished it before leaving the tavern, damn it. “I spent two years teaching there, and it was worse than watching you try and avoid a lady’s advance. The students are all so stiff and strict, like they don’t even understand that music is freedom!” 

Geralt’s hum is disinterested, but he is focused on his net again, and Jaskier frowns. “Are you even listening to me, or are you too busy fishing for your lunch? Though, I’ll admit, I haven’t had a decent meal today, and I’m famished. I could absolutely go for some fish right now. After all, you wouldn’t leave an old friend starving when you are catching yourself lunch, dinner, and tomorrow’s breakfast, would you?” 

“We are not friends,” Geralt grunts, turning away this time. 

“Not- Are you fucking kidding me?” Jaskier explodes and grabs Geralt’s shoulder. “So what, we argue once, we stop speaking for a couple of years, and suddenly you don’t know me anymore.” He’s way too drunk for this, but now that he has started, he can’t stop. “Fuck you, Geralt of Rivia, we _are_ friends, whether you want it or not. You and I went through enough shit that we are friends, to everyone’s eyes except yours! So now you’ll stop saying idiocies, because clearly speaking is not your forte, and turn your talents towards those fishes.” 

The witcher is looking at him, a bit astonished. Jaskier likes to imagine that there is fondness too, and that the relief he had read earlier is even stronger in those golden pupils. It’s unfair, so unfair, that Geralt can manage to look beautiful and vulnerable even now, when he looks half-crazed. 

“I’m not fishing.” 

“Well you sure aren’t with this attitude,” Jaskier giggles and pats Geralt’s cheek. “What are you looking for then? Did I mention you look absolutely dreadful? You need some sleep, dear, the whole grey skin and black circle under your eyes is really not a good look on you.” 

“I can’t sleep,” Geralt mutters and turns away. His movements are stiff and angry. There is something strange about him, Jaskier decides. 

“Right, that would, well, explain the whole…” Jaskier gestures at Geralt’s whole being, “You situation at the moment. So, what’s your solution for that then? Throwing fishing nets in a lake and hoping to be so bored by the lack of fish you’ll fall asleep right away? I can’t say that’s a bad idea, but that will take a long time.” 

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier frowns. Sure the witcher isn’t the most chatty person, especially not compared to Jaskier, but he rarely talks in monosyllables like this. Despite the nearly three years they’ve spent apart, Jaskier knows his friend still. There is something beyond the lack of sleep. 

“Geralt, talk to me. What’s going on? Is this somehow part of a contract? Do I need to go yell at some peasant for forcing you to do their dirty work? You know that I would do it, so please, tell me, what’s going on?” 

He ignores the way this could be a love confession, if he added just a few words, changed just a few meanings… No. Jaskier shakes himself internally. Right now, Geralt needs a friend, not a cursed witcher who is head over heels in love with him, and who wants nothing more than to be loved by him. 

“A djinn,” Geralt says as he still avoids Jaskier’s eyes. When the bard makes a noise of surprise, he finally meets the pair of blue eyes. “I’m looking for a djinn.” 

“You- We are speaking of the same entity, right? Floaty fella, incredibly bad temper, was sealed away by a sorcerer and imprisoned until someone used their three wishes, that kind of Djinn?” 

“Yes. It’s somewhere in this damned fucking lake, and I can’t fucking sleep!” He yells out the last sentence, looking even more mad than he had a few seconds ago, and Jaskier’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest. 

“Alright, well, not to play priest’s ear or anything, nor moralize you, but don’t you think there are other ways to find sleep? Like maybe…” Jaskier takes a deep breath in, briefly prays to Melitele and all the rest of the pantheon that he isn’t about to attract the witcher’s ire. “Talking about your issues? It could have something to do with Cintra, and your chid surprise. You know, the whole mess with the Princess and her knight, and that bullshit Law of Surprise. You might—“ 

“It’s not that,” Geralt snaps.

“How do you know?” Jaskier tries to stay calm as Geralt throws the fishing net again. Damn the attractive witcher. “It could very well be that. I bet you haven’t talked about it with anyone else.” 

“No one needs to know.” Geralt’s voice is getting tense again, and so are his shoulders, and although he had been tense earlier, this speaks solely of the discomfort the subject brings for him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier attempts again, touching his friend’s elbow delicately. “Destiny bound you to that child and-“ 

“Don’t start again. Destiny doesn’t fucking exist, it’s a tale created to distract peasants and lords from realizing their rulers are fucking left and right and becoming drunkards who shouldn’t be respected.” 

Jaskier doesn’t exactly disagree with some of that, but he does disagree that it doesn’t exist altogether. “You saw it happen with Pavetta and Duny-“ 

“Coincidences.” Geralt’s anger grows by the second. “If Destiny existed, it would fucking let me sleep and do my job!” 

“Yeah, I would rather you and I do that as well,” Jaskier snaps back, “but we are trying to fix your sleep issues so back off Destiny and realize that you fucked up and that’s weighing on your conscience!” 

“You don’t know shit about my conscience, bard,” Geralt reels the fishing net in slowly. “Keep your lectures for the students you bore to death in Oxenfurt.” 

“How dare you!” Jaskier gasps, moves forwards and places his hands on his hips. “I was an excellent lecturer, and I was an admired professor!” 

“That why you’re here now, because you were so good they couldn’t keep you?” 

“I left on my own,” Jaskier snarls, the alcohol curling inside him and making him angrier than he should be. “Don’t you dare-“ 

He stops as he sees that Geralt’s fishing net has something inside it, something pulsing with the same dark energy that Jaskier has been sensing as he walked towards Geralt. Not just his vision then; there _is_ something wrong with this lake, and it stems from this small jar. 

“This,” he starts, pointing it out, “doesn’t seem good.” 

Geralt grunts. “It has a sorcerer’s seal. It’s definitely the Djinn.” 

Faster than he anticipated himself, Jaskier grabs the small jar and holds it away from Geralt. “You shouldn’t use that kind of magic.” 

“And you shouldn’t be interfering in matters that don’t regard you,” Geralt tries to get the jar back to him. “You’re just a little pesky child who is playing with things you don’t understand.” 

“Me, being childish?” Jaskier gasps and places his hands on his hips. “If anything, you are the one being childish! Take it back!”

“Give me that,” Geralt moves forward and grabs the other half of the jar, and Jaskier almost lets go in his surprise. “I need it!” 

“Apologize for what you said, and I’ll give it to you,” Jaskier lies and tugs back on the jar. 

Both men growl at each other, their hands nearly joined on the jar as they tug it towards themselves back and forth. Neither of them notice the black tendrils that reach towards them, the way it encircles their wrists and slowly sinks into their skin. Jaskier has no intention to give the jar back, no intention to let Geralt have all the wishes to himself. After all, it isn’t fair. Jaskier could wish for his sister to be happy, for Marx to be erased of the Continent’s memory, but most of all, he could demand the djinn heal him, break the curse. Geralt wants what, to sleep? Jaskier will hit him on the back of the head and he’ll sleep, no need for magical help. 

“Apologize,” Jaskier commands again, but Geralt gives a harsh tug and suddenly the small clay pot breaks, half of it in Jaskier’s hand, and the other half in Geralt’s. The two men look at each other, a bit lost for a moment, and Jaskier huffs. “Well, that was anticlimactic.” 

Wind bellows around them, the water shuffling with the strength of it, and the black tendrils that had elected residency on Jaskier’s arms disappear. Not on Geralt’s though, although neither are anywhere close to noticing it. Jaskier moves forward, his boots sinking into the muddy bank of the lake. 

“Mmm, it might have worked after all.” He hums again, content with himself, and spreads his arms widely. “Djinn! You have been freed by me, and thus I am thy lord! Firstly, I wish for Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck of apoplexy and die, although if you would rather it a slow and torturous death, it’s your choice.” 

Jaskier almost doesn’t recognize himself as he says those words. He had thought them many times, yes, the memory of Valdo in fucking their professor of Astrology over her desk not one he can forget, and then the smug smile of the man as he had taken in Jaskier’s heartbroken expression… It is a memory that he doubts will ever leave him. After all, Valdo had been the first person outside of Renfri that had made him feel like he could really have a life again. And then the bastard had shattered it. 

So yes, he had thought of it many times, but to go so far as to wish it, as to demand it from the Djinn? There is something strange. But the words are still falling out of his mouth, and he cannot stop himself from going further. 

“Secondly,” he hears himself declare proudly, and isn’t it strange to hear his voice this way, as if he is already losing the battle against whatever is holding him? “I want the Countess de Stael to welcome back Pelargonia in her arms and—“

“Stop that,” Geralt yells and grabs him by the collar, almost sending him flying against one of the nearby trees. “There is only three wishes!” 

“And so what?” Jaskier snaps back, clutching the half of the amphora in his hand. “It’s not like you want anything else than to sleep! You don’t need to waste magic on that, just go find some fucking asshole to knock your high and mighty arse on the ground and you’ll sleep!” 

“Shut the fuck up and give me that, Jaskier,” Geralt says and steps forwards again. 

“You don’t want sleep, Geralt of Rivia,” the bard accuses and steps backwards, avoiding his friend’s grips. “What is it that you want? You keep saying you want nothing, that you need nothing, not even friendship!” 

_Not even me,_ Jaskier holds back the words, and there is a shift in him suddenly, as he is reminded of his feelings for Geralt. The reminder is harsh, making him almost shake, and he lets go of the jar. Geralt is already answering, screaming his answer, and there are black lines creeping over his face. 

“I just want some fucking peace!” 

It isn’t the Geralt Jaskier knows. It isn’t the Geralt Jaskier _loves_. There is something strange about them both, something that makes Jaskier wants to cry and yell and beg to be free. But it’s too late. The jar is broken and Geralt is bending down, gathering the broken pieces in his hands and swearing at the same time. 

Jaskier’s throat closes up suddenly, and it feels like the curse, although it isn’t the curse. It’s something fighting the curse, reaching for its dark tentacles that spread through Jaskier’s body. Blood falls from his mouth, and his eyes go blurry as he feels his hold on his own self slipping. The pain is unbearable, and he sees, one of the last things he can actually see in fact, a dark fog rising in the air, black as coal and pulsing with anger. 

“Geralt,” he manages to rasp out, extending a hand towards where he had last seen his friend. His hands shake violently, and pain makes them rattle, makes him scream loudly before he can continue. “The Djinn!” 

The witcher looks up, and suddenly he is again Geralt, his yellow eyes the last perceptible thing that Jaskier can see before everything fades to darkness. He feels a weight against him quickly, and he assumes that it is Geralt holding him, but he is already doubling over, blood rushing through his mouth and onto the ground. 

His eyes hurt, his back and muscles feel like they are being torn apart. He screams and yells, until his throat is sore and he cannot make a noise anymore, but he cannot stop himself. It is the worst pain he has ever felt. His nails being pulled out one by one would hurt less, and there wouldn’t be as much blood if someone had simply slit his throat. 

He has the vague notion of being carried and of being settled against the warmth of a body, but he can’t be too sure. Everything blurs with each other, and he can only spew out more blood and bile, his throat swelling with each new reflux. He is disgusted with himself, but his mind is being overtaken by the pain, and he cannot stop himself. 

He remembers being cursed by Stregobor, remembers the pain that had come with it. Compared to this, it had been a child’s play. But this, whatever _this_ is, is actively fighting the curse. Slowly, his senses are coming back to him. First, it is his hearing that comes back, and he realizes that Geralt is holding him while they are riding Roach, and they come to a halt a few seconds later. 

“Is there a doctor here, a healer, anything?” Geralt’s voice is panicked, and Jaskier would almost be endeared by the witcher’s fear for his bard’s life if he weren’t the bard in question, and if he weren’t half convinced that the curse will kill him before leaving his body. 

There is more shuffling, and Jaskier is lifted in Geralt’s arms, which only causes him to bleed more, until he is tossed onto his knees on the ground, someone else poking at him and at his face and chest. 

“You found a Djinn’s bottle and this happened?” Someone is saying, and Jaskier gasps again, trying to take more air in as he feels his sense of smell coming back. Shit, he reeks of blood and alcohol, and the space they are in smells hardly any better. Ointments, herbs, a healthy amount of blood… They are probably in a healer’s tent by now, though he missed the name of whoever it is poking at him. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Geralt says tersely. “Can you help him?” 

A hand pokes tentatively at Jaskier’s throat and he keens, both the touch and the effort of making the sound hurting him more than before. It feels like he has swallowed a hot iron, and it is burning his throat. His vision is still gone, everything still being relied through pain, and the occasional scent and noise, but everything is dulled by the pain. 

“Oh dear,” the healer sigs, and Geralt’s grip on Jaskier’s collar tightens. 

“What is it?” 

“I assure you,” the person - man? - tries to reassure Geralt, but that’s quite the lost cause, Jaskier wants to say, “I have the best medical attention around those parts, but even this is going beyond my abilities. These injuries were made by magic, and only powerful magic can heal them. Magic that I don’t have at my disposition, unfortunately.” 

“Can you at least stop it,” Geralt snaps, “until I find someone competent enough?” 

“I can ease the pain a little,” the healer offers, “but I cannot make it stop.”

Pain seizes Jaskier again, and he heaves again, but no blood pours out. “Please,” he manages to gasp out, before he pitches forward, exhausted by the effort it took him to say this. 

“Ease it, do something,” Geralt’s tone is growing angrier by the second. “He’s dying!” 

“His throat was attacked,” the healer continues as he forces a drink down Jaskier’s throat, and it’s cool for a second, but then Jaskier realizes what’s happening. It’s trying to stop the curse from being broken, and the pain comes from the curse being ripped apart from him. Jaskier can’t let them stop this.

“Please,” Jaskier protests, tries to grasp Geralt’s hand and make him understand that this, whatever it is doing, whatever the pain becomes, is good, or at least, desired. He must fail though, because his witcher only holds him tighter and murmurs something that is probably reassuring, but isn’t very much in the moment. Jaskier falls into the darkness again, everything becoming muted again.

He emerges every once in a while, his mind catching on the sound of people laughing and … fucking? He isn’t really sure of what he hears, but he for sure knows that it isn’t the quietness of the woods. He tries to talk, to tell Geralt that they need to get away, to let him go through the already fading pain that is still holding him, but Geralt only clasps an arm tighter around him, and then he is sent away against something. Bodies, soft fabric, something that probably vaguely resembles food… 

Scents are assaulting him from all side, and he frowns, trying to push at whatever — whoever?— is holding him, but he can’t move, his body too weak as he is wrecked from the inside out. He wants to scream again, but his throat is too sore, his voice completely gone, and when he tries to open his mouth, more blood falls out, earning a disgusted noise from whoever is next to him. 

He fades away from reality again. He isn’t unconscious this time though, he can feel something, something else, something new… No, not something new. He knows this. He has known this since he was a teenager, since he passed the trials and chose Vesemir as his bondmate. 

Next to his own, a heartbeat resonates, steady and strong. _Vesemir’s heartbeat,_ he realizes ecstatic. He can feel his soul being freed, can feel his body regaining its strength. He is becoming himself again, and he relies on Vesemir’s strength, holds onto his friend’s heartbeat. Vesemir is alive, and Jaskier can hardly believe it. He isn’t alone anymore, he won’t be alone ever again, this curse just has to be completely broken and he will be able to go home. 

Chaos slams in him, and suddenly everything fades away again. He screams, uncaring that the noises he lets out are inhuman, and his eyes fly open. For one glorious moment, he sees everything as it should be, the details in the wood above him, the delicate carvings on the side, everything is well rendered in his mind. He is almost completely himself. 

“Leave him!” A voice screams, and Jaskier feels his heartbeat speeding again, and Vesemir fades from him again. 

He is alone, all alone, and darkness clings to him as the curse rears its head, laughing inside him. Jaskier retreats into himself, leaving the darkness fall on him. His mind shouts out, wants to reach out and hold onto that second heartbeat, but it is gone, and Jaskier cannot do anything to hold onto it. 

The darkness wins, and all dreams of returning to the life of a witcher are broken, again, and again, and again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) whoops 
> 
> terribly sorry about that :) 
> 
> Seems i have dropped my boy :) 
> 
> (I swear, it will get better for him by the end of the story. I swear)


	6. In the Past - Twin Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are memories that Jaskier keeps hidden in his heart. When the Djinn attacks him, he relives them, be they good, bad, or a bit of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [rolls here late with a chai in one hand] sup people, tis I, your friendly author who nearly forgot to update again despite having vibrated with excitement at the very thought of sharing this chapter for the last like, three weeks or sth. 
> 
> Honestly, this is maybe. mayyyybe... my favorite chapter in this whole fic. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy it! 
> 
> Lil' TW for the Trials, blood, pain, manipulation and aftermath of (rather severe) injury. yeah i think that's about it? yeah

Excitement courses through Julian's body and he rolls back and forth on his heels, looking around as he waits. He jumps up and down a bit, trying to keep his giggles to himself. Today marks three years since he passed the trials. Three years since he got his mutation, and two years since Roland took him under his private tutelage. 

It's thrilling to be Roland's pupil, to be learning from one of the best witcher the school of the wolf ever produced. Every day, Julian learns new things, new ways to fight and defend himself, new ways to kill monsters and protect people. Julian loves being a Witcher, most days, even if he isn't one fully just yet. All the Elders, and especially Roland, have said they had high expectations for him at his latest evaluations; after all, he had managed to defeat everyone. Well, everyone except Vesemir. 

At the memory of his friend, Julian bounces again, his eagerness coming back tenfold. He has never been this excited before, but he cannot wait for what is going to happen soon. Ever since they found one another, Vesemir and him have been talking about it, about taking this vow, passing this extra trial together.

The Trial of the Heart is one that is rarely done anymore, according to Roland. When Julian had declared a year ago that he had taken his decision and so had Vesemir, and that they intended to pass the extra Trial, his mentor he tempted to discourage him, to convince him that it was not a good idea. 

"It is not an easy trial, Julian," Roland's strict voice had rung out in the empty courtyard. "You may be strong, and you may be resistant, but the Trial of the Heart might split your body in half, killing you slowly. It is not worth the risk. The effects of it are nothing you cannot gain through training and studying."

For Julian, it has never been about the even further enhanced abilities, but rather about the meaning of it all. He would never have asked to pass it if he had chosen, and had been chosen, by anyone else than Vesemir to go through with it. 

Julian and Vesemir had met when they were both five and being brought in by Witchers who had claimed the Law of Surprise. It hadn't bothered Julian too much to go with the Witcher who had asked for him as payment; Julian's father had been a drunk prone to losing all his money in games of chance which never turned in his favor. Vesemir has been a bit more resistant when he had arrived, roughly six months after Julian. 

At five years old, Vesemir had been an hell in the Keep for the elders, and Julian had found him amusing. It was always entertaining, at least in his opinion, to see the masters running around after a boy so much younger than them, with none of their mutations. They had found each other for the first time when Julian had snuck to the kitchens and stole a loaf of bread, only to find that Vesemir was also there, trying to acquire the bread for himself. It had resulted in a fight between the two boys, and the cooks had found them out. 

After that, it had been easier to simply work together to acquire new items and infuriate their masters, and from that their friendship had blossomed. Now; nearly ten years later, they are ready to commit to the greatest oath the witcher caste has ever created. 

There aren’t many bonded souls anymore, and Julian has long ago stopped wondering why. Roland had told him that it was already a rare commitment, one many witchers rarely took, simply out of love of independence and the ever growing sentiment of being an outcast even within their peers. This will never happen to Vesemir and Julian. Once they pass this trial, nothing will ever be able to separate them, apart from death. 

“Julian!” Vesemir barrels into him and lifts him, both of them laughing loudly. “Can you believe it? It’s finally here!” 

“It is,” Julian nods eagerly as his friends put him back down on the floor, their respective heights similar. 

Vesemir is sturdier than Julian, but his hair is also a bright shade of ginger, making him stand out amongst all of the dark-haired witchers and students. There are a few blonds, but only one gingerhead, and seeing a flash of red always has meant Vesemir, ever since he arrived. 

“You are sure this is what you want, right?” Julian questions, more out of duty than out of real concern. 

“Yes! We already are half of each other’s soul; might as well make it official. And I know we will succeed. I know we will be the greatest duo to have ever roamed the Continent, even if we are separated.”

Julian chuckles and agrees with a nod. “Let’s go then.”

Hands still holding onto another, the two fifteen years olds rushes off, running to the outside of the Keep. The Trial of the Heart is never done inside. If it fails, if the trial is not passed by both witchers, the magical residue is enough to kill more than its fair share of witchers, and everyone is more than willing to avoid it.

But Julian and Vesemir know they won't fail. They are more certain of this than they have ever been of anything in their lives. 

Julian lets go of Vesemir's hand when they reach the circle of Elders waiting for them, as well as the mage who will oversee the Trial and make sure that both witchers are contained if there is any sign of an error in the rites. 

The mage is the same one as had been there for Julian and Vesemir's first trials, an imposing woman with a scar running down her left arm from her shoulder to her hand, ensnaring even her fingers. Her hair is, as it always is when they see her, drawn behind a colorful clothe, but dark brown curls escape on her forehead. Before meeting her, Julian had never seen anyone with a skin as dark as she had. Some of the boys in the Keep had darker skin, and he had seen some merchants with brown skin on a few occasions, but that deep, mesmerizing black? He had never seen it before. Lady Elazia is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he feels a blush creeping on his ears as she smiles at him kindly. 

"Are you two ready for the Trial of the Heart," one of the elders asks, and Julian snaps out of his trance to nod eagerly. 

"We are," Vesemir answers for them both. "We have been waiting for this moment for years. We understand the possible risk and have chosen to go forth." 

The circle of elders hums, and in the dim sunlight that reaches them, their golden eyes and silver medallions shimmer. Julian and Vesemir advances to the middle of the circle, and, clasping the other's right arm, they lock their eyes together. 

"Very well then," Lady Elazia says, and she casts a quick spell, a protective dome appearing around the two boys, a crackling, shimmering gold. "Let the Trial of the Heart begins." 

Julian and Vesemir take a breath, their bodies slowing down and reflecting each other as they keep their eyes fixated on the other. They know what must be done. 

The potion they had both drunk that morning churns their stomachs, but they don't care as they start chanting the words of power they learnt by heart. 

It is Elazia's magic that will bind them together, but only them can invoke her power and invite her in, so that she may change the very nature of who they are. If she manages, they will no longer be Julian and Vesemir, witchers and friends. They will become a pair, a double edged sword, hearts beating at the same rhythm and breaths coming out in the same puff. They will become independent of anyone other than their bonded soul. They will share strength and mind, and their weaknesses will be diminished to a mere grain of salt. 

The words don't mean much to either of them, the language they are using not one of their own. Elder tongue isnt either of their favorite studies, but Julian knows enough to have recognized the words 'soul', 'man', 'unbreakable', and 'contract', so he doesn't doubt that they learnt the right enchantment. 

The chaos that runs through them isn't the violent wave that had wrecked their bodies in the Trials of Grass and Dreams. It is a gentle rippling, a caress on their very souls, but it soon turns into a maelstrom of emotions, a digging into their very being. 

It doesn't hurt, not exactly, but there is no time lost to pleasure and carefulness in this ritual. Julian doesn't scream, only because there is no need to, but he wants to curl up and cry, to find a place away from this feeling of his mind being forced open. If he lets go of Vesemir though... The gods only know what will happen. 

So he keeps repeating the elder words, over and over again, gripping his friend's arm tightly in his right hand, and never turning his eyes away from Vesemir either. It's easier to hold on if he sees his friend hold on as well. This way, neither of them will try to jump out of the discomfort. 

When the protective shield around them disappear, the moon is high in the night, and only two of the elders remain. Elazia is looking tired, much more than she had after administrating the usual Trials, but she smiles. 

"Congratulations, boys," she says with an easy smile. "Welcome to your life as bonded souls." 

It's only when she slaps them both heartily on the shoulders that they let go of one another. Their fingers leave a red imprint on their skin, after so many hours spent clutching each other like their lives depended on it. Which, Julian realizes slowly as he feels himself returning to his own body? Is exactly what had happened. 

He had been elsewhere during the Trial, his mind so focused on the bond and doing the right thing at the right time that he had lost touch with his own body. It feels strange now, and he flexes his fingers, taking a deep breath in-- only to _feel_ Vesemir doing the same. The two friends look at each other, eyes wide, and a giggle rises through them. One of them must have started first, but neither of them can determine which one has, and none of them ever will be able to tell.

"The first few months are likely to be overwhelming," Elazia points out, her tone kind. "Be careful not to let yourself drawn too much into the bond. You must not lose sight of who you are, on your own. This bond makes you stronger, more efficient, but it does not make you unbeatable. It does not make you unkillable. Do not forget yourself." 

This is a repeated sermon for both of them, something most, if not all, of the elders have told them in the last three months, as their Trial had been organized. Still, her advice is valuable, and Julian bows to her. 

"Yes, Lady Ezalia." 

She chuckles. "I'll come back for the next round of trials and check up on you two at the next occasion. Be careful with one another, young ones." 

She leaves in a gasp of wind and chaos, her portal closing behind her, and Vesemir and Julian are left alone, their exhilarated breathings matching.

"We did it," Vesemir breathes out in glee, and his arms encircle Julian once more as he shouts. "We did it!"

Julian laughs and jumps up and down with him. They had been waiting for this moment for years, and it's finally here. Their souls are linked, their bodies connected in ways they themselves don't fully comprehend, and nothing will ever separate them. They are the world, and so much more.

In their chests, their own heartbeat is echoed by the other's.

* * *

_They chose me_ , Julian reminds himself as searing pain goes through his body and he feels himself ravaged by the chaos that ripples through the air and in his veins. _I can do this, I can be strong and do this, and survive. I can come back from this, go back to Ves._

It's that thought that keeps him going most of all. He can't abandon his bonded soul, can't leave him alone. They promised to each other that nothing would ever separate them, and Julian isn't about to let something like new, experimental trials make him break that promise. 

The elders had approached him a month ago, when he had just come back for the winter and had been celebrating with his comrades. Vesemir had been at his side, as he always was when they were not on the Path together during the year, and Julian's tankard had been full of ale as he listened to Anton's riveting tale of how he had wooed the maiden of Lindenwood- only to be cast out when her father had arrived. Julian would never have believed a word of Anton's words, had they not all been well on their ways to being drunk, inhibitions and lying tendencies discarded to let place to their joy of being all together in their home again. 

"We need to have a talk with you, Julian." Roland's hand had landed on the younger Witcher's shoulder, immediately sobering up the whole table. 

Julian had thought the man the greatest witcher alive when he had been young. In his mentor he had seen chivalry and greatness, a talent for monster hunting and beast slaying. Now that he has been on the Path for over 90 years, Julian isn't so sure that he likes Roland half as much. He has seen the man terrorize young boys who can't handle their swords yet, witnessed the way he set himself as superior to the rest of the elders... Still, Julian respects him. To live so old, a witcher must be extraordinary. 

"Of course," Julian had nodded and stood up, excusing himself from the conversation smoothly.

Vesemir had given him a strange look, but Julian had clapped his shoulder reassuringly before following Roland and the three other elders to the quietness of Roland's study. 

The office was lavishly decorated, draped in gold, red velvet decorating the walls. Julian hated it as a child, and he had hated it even more when faced with four of the Wolf Elders. 

The offer had come to him as a surprise. New trials, experimental. That was why Alenor had died the past winter. Older than Julian by a couple of decades, he had apparently volunteered for those new trials, intent on becoming the best witcher there ever was. It didn't really add up with what Julian had known of him, but he had shrugged the thought off. This moment had been all about him, not about the memory of a dead friend. 

When they had finished explaining what they intended to do, what the trials should accomplish, Julian had taken some time to think about it. He had walked around the castle, briefly watched the kids running around as they attempted to escape their bedtimes and the few masters who had been required to look over them despite the night's feasting. Running around, wild and young, Julian had envied their freedom. He had envied the way they answered to no one, the way they called out to one another... 

"You are looking quite morose, Julek." Vesemir had appeared out of nowhere, smiling sadly, and Julian knew the man could feel the maelstrom of emotions within him. "Talk to me." 

"They want me to endure more trials. They are looking into making witchers even more efficient, and they think I'm the perfect candidate for this... Alenor died because of those new trials, you know? They aren't even sure it will work this time either."

"Why do they think you perfect for this?"

Julian had sighed heavily. "Because of our bond. They think it more likely that I will survive if I have someone else's strength to rely on. We are the best bonded pair out there, and the others are too young, the magic in their veins too recent... I don't know, it all sounds too... perfect I guess?" 

"It's not perfect," Vesemir had comforted him gently, "but they might be right. It would be something, wouldn't it, if it succeeded? You are already so amazing, Julian... you could be so much more still. I know it. We both do."

It had taken more convincing but Julian had agreed in the end. 

He can't disappoint Vesemir now, can't die and prove him wrong. He doesn't want to leave this life knowing that his bonded soul will remain alive and alone, keenly aware of the loss and hollowness in his chest where Julian's heartbeat should have been. 

He yells of pain, yells until his throat is so sore it feels like he is bleeding; and he might be, he realizes as his teeth catch on his lips, tear at them, blood falling down his chin and cheeks. He is tied to the table, hands and feet bound as they pump some strange liquid into him. They hadn't let him look at the formulae they were going to use on him, and he regrets it now, as his screams fill the air, as his body doses through circles of pain after circles of pain. 

The elders are watching without moving, the mage with them looking at Julian with critical eyes. Elazia, Julian remembers her name from his childhood, has her lips tightly pursed as she slams waves of chaos into him, her magic altering his body even more. She had already been the one to make him a witcher, and now she's the one tasked to make him better than a witcher. He wants to curse her with each new ripple of magic. 

After what seems like hours, he loses consciousness, the whole world fading to a grey wonderland where shadows exist as beings, and he is only a pawn in their games. 

When he wakes up, his world hurts. His body is a complicated tangle of pain, everything feeling so raw and harsh that he can feel tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes. It hurts, hurts so much, and his throat is raw and sore, and even crying hurts. 

"Shhh," a voice murmurs, a voice he knows, and hands he knows well are there, stroking his hair. "It's over, you've made it, I'm here..." 

There is guilt in the voice, and it takes a few seconds for Julian to identify the voice. When he realizes he had almost forgotten that it is Vesemir speaking, his very best friend in the whole world, he feels a sickening growth in his gut, and a second later he is throwing up on the floor. 

He can't see anything, Julian realizes as he bats his eyes open, a feat that already demands a great effort on his part. But it isn't the pain that makes him scream this time, not again. Rather than the dim light he has grown accustomed to seeing everywhere when it is night, there is pitch darkness. 

"Julian!" Vesemir is back to holding him, drawing him tight against his chest. "It's alright! I'm here, I'm going to take care of you, I promise." 

Julian can't speak, can only feel the pain beating through his body, but he trusts Vesemir. He lets himself be drawn into his friend's arms, and hides his face in the warm chest of his bonded soul. 

The sound of Vesemir's heartbeat is a reassuring one, one he can feel in his own chest as well, but had needed to hear this time. He settles down again in Vesemir's arms. 

"Your sight will come back," Vesemir promises him. "The sorceress said it was a temporary side effect. Just a couple of weeks without your eyes, but I'll be right there. I'm not going anywhere until you send me away." 

A whimper escapes Julian's throat, the only thing he can muster after his cry from earlier, and he moves slightly, squeezing the part of Vesemir's leg he can reach. It means nothing and everything at once, but he knows Vesemir will understand him. Their souls are linked to one another in a way only death can ever undo. 

It takes two months for Julian to regain his vision fully, but Vesemir doesn't leave his side afterwards either. The masters keep pestering Julian with questions and making him pass tests and new examinations, but each time those sessions end, they end up leaving more frustrated than they had come in. 

It takes half that for Julian to speak again properly, but three whole months before he starts singing again, the way Vesemir and him had used to do when they were with one another. 

"The new trials have failed," Roland announces him four months after they tortured him on a table to better him. "You are barely any better than the others, and while the intensity of some of your signs is greater, you are not faster or stronger by any regards." 

Julian tries not to feel offended or insulted by that, but Roland seems personally disappointed in his former protégé. 

"I'm sorry," Julian starts, but is stopped quickly by Roland. 

"You weren't the proper candidate. Rather than reinforcing your body, your soul bond weakened you. If you broke it, you might-" 

"Never," Julian growls and stands up harshly. His teeth are sharper than they were before and he feels like the monster villagers always think him to be. "I chose him a hundred years ago, and to be separated from him now would kill me." 

"It would make you a better witcher," Roland sighs. "The Elders have concluded your bond with Vesemir was impeding your abilities and was stopping you to come into your full potential. We want you to break the bond." 

Julian snarls and slams his hands on the table as he leans forward. "I said no." 

"Are you disobeying a direct order?" Roland asks him severely. "You know the consequences of that." 

"I don't care. Punish me however you want, I won't break the bond." 

Julian counts each time the lash hits his skin with bitter resolution as he bites down onto the leather. His long hair gets tangled with the blood and the open wounds, and it's Vesemir who helps him in the evening.

"Why were you punished?" His hands are gentle, but he doesn't hesitate to tug when Julian's hair has stuck inside a wound. "I wasn't expecting this and-" 

"They asked of me more than I could give," Julian answers through gritted teeth. "I refused, and Roland thought me fit for punishment."

"What did you say no to?"

"They wanted me to break our bond." 

Vesemir drops the wet clothe and the brush he is holding, his eyes wide when Julian turns his head. They aren't young anymore, some grey has sneaked into Vesemir's beard, but when Julian looks into his friend's golden eyes, he sees the same innocent fear he has always seen. The one that Vesemir only shows to him, because there is so much they share it would be pointless to hide it. 

"They- What? No, they can't, we- No!" 

"This is exactly why I refused," Julian sighs and closes his eyes, exhausted. "I won't let them break us apart as well. We chose to be with each other always, and I will never give that up." 

Vesemir nods shakily. "Better a hundred lashes than to be separated from you." 

Julian nods and Vesemir starts working again, cleaning the wounds and disinfecting them. It won't take long to heal, not with how fast healing is for them, but it will still leave scars. 

When it is done, Julian stands up and goes to the mirror above his washbasin. 

"It's high time I changed," he ponders out loud, and grabs the dagger on the side of the table. 

The first locks of his long hair fall in the basin, but most of them don't, slowly reaching the harsh stone floor. Julian's hair had, until now, been long enough to reach past his shoulders. Now, Julia leaves them just beneath his ears. He'll visit a barber when he is back on the path, but this will do for now. 

Looking down, he observes the white locks that surround him. He hates the way the white makes him stand out. He misses his chestnut brown hair and the simplicity that came with it. 

White hair is his new normal though, so he will adapt to it at some point. He has too.

He's Julian of Kaer Morhen after all. He might have white hair and supposed enhanced abilities, but as long as he has Vesemir in his heart and soul, he will be alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT SO YEAH -- 
> 
> I hope yall enjoyed it :D 
> 
> For the twin soul idea, it's mostly based off the notion of "Parabatais" in Shadowhunters - warriors who choose to bond their souls in their early teenage years so that they will be better warriors & have more strength - but i chose to tweak it slightly so that distance wouldn't affect it and also it was a dangerous thing that most people wouldn't attempt ... 
> 
> (Yes this fic almost featured some Vesemir/Jaskier, but i have other plans for Vesemir... Good plans? Hopefully) 
> 
> I hope this wasn't too confusing!! Don't hesitate to let me know if it was lmao 
> 
> I'll see you lovelies next week!! <3


	7. On the Other side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is always an after, even to the most wonderful, excruciating memories. Jaskier revels in that after, talking with Yennefer some more. They may yet be more that he will learn. 
> 
> And Geralt _finally_ naps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ 
> 
> I do not have much to say here, this follows mostly none of canon. I really was planning to use the canon plotline! and then Jaskier & Yennefer decided to be buddy. I legit can't say no to that. 
> 
> Same warnings as usual, some blood & violence but like, i think it's one of the chillest chapter regarding that? 
> 
> Also: my chapters are just getting longer and longer uh.
> 
> ALSO ALSO!! If you haven't seen it floating around tumblr, Brothebro drew me [an AWESOME fanart of Jaskier as a witcher](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/630707044987584512/saltytransidiot-s-witcher-jaskier-from-the) and it is now my phone background and i also yelled about it for 12h consecutively yes

The warmth that had surrounded him fades. It had been beautiful, beautiful and so real, and now… Now, his life is back to being shattered. Jaskier can feel his fast heartbeat, the way there is nothing witchery about it. He can’t sense the room that surrounds him, can only hear the ruffles of clothing and sheets. He is in a bedroom, that is for sure, but whose? The only thing he remembers is Geralt, and then this voice… A woman? 

Cautious, his body still gripped by exhaustion and chaos, he opens his eyes, fluttering them around and taking in the soft light that streams through the large windows. This is a luxurious room, that is for sure, with a great mirror on the wall and another standing next to what must be a wardrobe. 

There is a woman, torso naked, sitting in front of him. Her long dark hair barely shifts as she registers him waking up, and she pulls a dress over her body, not delicate but deliberate. Jaskier has no idea who she is, but he can feel her chaos, bubbling underneath the surface of the room. Powerful, that sorceress. She must be the one to have wrenched the djinn away from him. 

Jaskier touches his throat, feels nothing but the normal, smooth skin that he usually feels. No medallion around his neck either. He is just… himself. The human bard. _Jaskier_. 

The sorceress took his life back away from him. The Djinn, it was breaking Stregobor’s curse, lifting it away, like a leech being torn away from the body it has found refuge on. But this sorceress, and Geralt as well, took that from Jaskier. He had been so close to being Julian again, to being the witcher he was born to be. It wasn’t meant to happen this way, it seems. 

Jaskier doesn’t roar of pain. He doesn’t yell and beg the sorceress to give him back what has been taken from him. He stays still as she moves, and then he sits up as she turns towards him. 

The sorceress is beautiful. Her brown skin shines with the sun, illuminating her stunning purple eyes. She is special, he is certain of it, but he cannot for the life of himself discern how, and in what way just yet. There is something intriguing about her. She commands attention, demands the devotion of those who gaze at her. Jaskier would call it an enchantment, but he knows better than that now. There are people who are simply more than others, people whose lives you cannot turn away from. The sorceress is one of them. 

“You’re awake. Good.” She doesn’t seem surprised by his stillness, and he tries not to jump away immediately. “Give your wish.” 

“My—“ Oh gods above. “There has been a serious mistake, I—“ 

“Give me your heart’s deepest desire, and I will let you go free,” she demands. 

“Listen, you’ve got the wrong guy, I just want to get out of here.” He scrambles to a standing position, spreading his arms around him in a way that’s half-protective, half-ridiculous. So many years spent out of shape have bent his training, it seems. “I don’t know what you want, lady, and I don’t know what you think I have to do with the Djinn, but it quite clearly attacked me!” 

“You are its master,” she yells as she grabs a knife on the nightstand, leaping over the bed in a smooth motion clearly aided by chaos. “Give me the wish, and I shall let you go free, bard!” 

If Jaskier were a simple bard, he would get away without asking question. He would give one ridiculous wish or another and run out of the front door to escape the madness of this room. But it isn’t madness that rules the woman’s eyes. It isn’t madness that pushes her to tighten her grip on the knife as he still doesn’t answer. It’s despair.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs, his voice low and raw. It seems that the Djinn has still left its mark on Jaskier’s body, despite the failure of its attack. “Please, I can help you!” 

“You are a bard,” the woman snarls. “What would you know of mages and sorceresses? You are good only to give your wish. So give it now!” 

The house is shaking on its roots, malevolent forces drawn to it by the markings that have been drawn on the floor with chalk, and that are surrounded by incense and candles. There are a few drops of blood as well, and in the centre of the large ritual circle, the broken bits of the jar that held the Djinn. 

“No.” He breathes out and looks at the mage in front of him. “You can’t do this.” 

“I will do whatever I wish.” Her purple eyes are crackling with more chaos than he thought could be held in a body. He had thought Stregobor powerful, but this is nothing compared to this sorceress and her fury. “Now give me your wish, before I kill you!” 

She isn’t listening, so focused on her objective that she cannot see reason. The circle, the specific symbols, the Djinn’s seal in the centre of the candles, Jaskier knows this ritual. He has seen rites akin to this one kill more than just the person summoning the spirit. To want to control a spirit with as much anger as a Djinn, it is the mad deed of a person who has seen all of their hopes shattered. 

“I wish…” He starts slowly, trying to buy himself some time. He isn’t the one with the wishes. He has known this since the moment the Djinn tried to break the curse. If he had been the one with the Djinn, it would never had done so. Stregobor’s curse is still beating too strongly in his veins, and it wouldn’t have let him utter the words. When Geralt had demanded peace, the Djinn had latched onto Jaskier, had attempted to kill Jaskier. 

When it had encountered the curse keeping Jaskier alive and suffering, it must have resolved that, in order to kill Jaskier, breaking the curse was necessary. Geralt had both cursed and saved him, Jaskier supposes now. 

The knife pushes further into his skin, and he feels a trickle of blood falls down his neck as it cuts him lightly. 

“Your wish, now!” 

“I wish for the floor to open up and swallow us!” 

She shrieks and grabs him, the knife digging into his skin. “What have you done!” 

The sorceress looks terrified, chaos curling at her fist and around her as she attempts to stop the Djinn, but then she stops. Nothing is happening. She steps back, her eyes wide with horror. 

“No!” She yells this and suddenly Jaskier feels the Djinn’s presence in the room. It is so strong he nearly throws up, his body sick at the very presence of the being. “Come to me!” 

“Don’t!” 

He tries to move, tries to reach her, but he can’t. The Djinn is too powerful, too angry for Jaskier to even try to oppose him. If he keeps going, it won’t be his life as Jaskier he will lose, but rather his life as a whole. He isn’t willing to lose this, not when he has finally accepted that this, this is what he loves now. This is who he is, and this is who he should be. And especially not when he felt Vesemir’s heartbeat, loud and real, in his chest. He won’t let him slip away from his life again. He has to find a way to get his friend back to his side. 

Jaskier coughs, falls on the ground, as a powerful swipe of Chaos lashes out and knocks everything down. He scrambles closer to the sorceress, tries to erase the circle the sorceress has created. It’s a desperate attempt to force the Djinn out, but it’s everything that Jaskier can think of. He won’t be able to touch her, that he knows. Her skin is crackling with her chaos, and she looks halfway about to die. He knows that feeling too well. 

He smears the chalk, and the sorceress yells, eyes black as charcoal as the Djinn uses her body to writhe in pain and agony. Those beings should never have been put to the service of men. They only bring chaos and darkness, and Jaskier resents the first mage who imprisoned one. 

She screams, her body tensing and arching, and Jaskier groans of pain as his own curse rears its ugly head, trying to stop him from being murdered. Stregobor probably hadn’t intended this, but Jaskier imagines pretty well that he had wished that Julian suffer for all times. No better way to suffer forever than to live forever. 

There is something outside, the sound of something breaking, but Jaskier is focused on the sorceress now. Half naked, she has a symbol on her stomach, something that resembles… A uterus? The bard frowns, takes a second to throw up the bile that has risen in the second and a half he has looked at the woman, and then focuses back on the imploding sorceress. 

“You have to let go,” he yells over the cacophony of furniture creaking and breaking. “The Djinn will kill you!” 

“I am strong enough,” she answers, proud and fierce, and he almost believes her. If there weren’t that thin line of blood at the corner of her mouth, the pearling of blood underneath her eyes each time she blinks… “I can control it!” 

There is nothing that Jaskier can say that she will listen to, he realizes. She will only respect action, action and her own will. Not the will of another. But Jaskier cannot get into her head, cannot force her to relent. So he does the only thing that goes through his head: he tackles her to the ground. 

They yell in unison as the Djinn is knocked out of her body and it ripples through Jaskier’s own body, burning and stretching him, and for an instant he believes he is really going to die. He almost welcomes it. It would probably end the curse on him, and he would no longer be separated from Vesemir and— he would be dead. And he would be _dead_. The gods forgive him, he had almost forgotten the reality of it all. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice, then Geralt’s hands wrenching him away from the sorceress’s body. “Jaskier, you’re alive!” 

The house is trembling, shaking under the weight of the Djinn who tries to escape its summon. But as long as the sorceress breathes and holds the Djinn within her grip, it won’t be able to escape, and they will die from its incessant attempts. 

“Barely,” Jaskier croaks out and rolls away, tugging Geralt away as wood falls down. “We need to stop her!” 

“Whatever for?” Geralt grunts and tries to make Jaskier move away, but the bard is determined to stay. “You need to get out!” 

“Fuck off, Geralt,” Jaskier growls. “You don’t have the monopoly on helping people.” 

“What the fuck is going on, Jask?” Geralt yells over the sound of the mirrors in the room exploding as the sorceress rolls on the floor, an inhuman high pitched sound coming from her. “What did she do to you?” 

“Never mind that,” Jaskier manages to get back on his feet and immediately attempts to move forward, only to be stopped as the floor breaks under his feet. “She needs help!” 

“Your wish,” the sorceress roars, her voice not her own. “Give me your last wish!” 

Geralt startles and looks at Jaskier, his golden eyes so beautifully confused, and Jaskier wants to hate him for stopping the Djinn from killing the curse, but he can’t. He can’t, and he hates it. He hates himself for the feelings he has allowed to grow for Geralt in his chest, and for the way just looking at the witcher makes his heart beat faster and makes him feel like maybe this life is worth living. 

“Please,” he begs, not loud enough underneath the swivelling chaos that surrounds them, but he holds onto Geralt’s shirt. “Please, help her.” 

Geralt nods, and he pushes his forehead against Jaskier. The unexpected touch almost makes Jaskier startle and step back, but Geralt holds onto him, and he closes his eyes, enjoying this moment of tenderness, knowing that he will most likely die due to his own inadequacy. 

He hears a murmur, feels a swipe of gentle air across his forehead, and suddenly he hears nothing anymore. The room is quiet, surviving in a fragile equilibrium as the three persons in it breathe, not quite in relief. How to be relieved, when the mage is lying down, looking half dead, her chest rising up and down so weakly that Jaskier fears she might not stand up ever again. 

“Yennefer,” Geralt calls out, drawing Jaskier back close to him and almost behind him. “You alive?” 

The sorceress — Yennefer, Geralt called her — groans and sits up slowly, drawing back on herself her half torn dress. “Not thanks to you, but I am.” 

“Not thanks to me?” Geralt bares his teeth and Jaskier sighs, exhausted. “I just saved your ass, mage, what the fuck where you thinking?” 

“I had it under control! Everything was perfectly fine until you came barging in, disrupting the ritual and being a nuisance!” 

Yennefer steps forward, and the floorboard creaks, but neither her nor the witcher seem to notice as they stare at each other angrily. 

“Under control? You call this under control?” He gestures at the mess and the broken furniture still settling back on the floor. “You were about to die! I saved you.” 

“I didn’t need your saving,” Yennefer yells. “I was about to get it under my control!” 

“You needed my wish for a reason,” Geralt snarls. “You would never have been able to hold it prisoner. A Djinn is no child’s plaything!” 

“You keep underestimating me, witcher,” she says haughtily, and Geralt steps forward. “Don’t you dare try and instruct me in Chaos!” 

“If you didn’t—“ 

“Careful,” Jaskier shouts out and jumps, pushing Geralt out of the way of a falling beams, and suddenly they are both next to Yennefer, who looks at them astonished. 

Jaskier doesn’t have the time to explain himself or even try to appease both of them; another beams fall, nearer, and then the one right above them creaks, loud and threatening, and Jaskier realizes what is about to happen. 

He grabs Yennefer and lifts her, pushing her to the side and towards Geralt, who catches her with a grunt, just as the beam falls on Jaskier. He rolls away from it, but his right hand isn’t fast enough, and he swears in elder as splinters works their way into his skin as the beam crushes his hand. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls out, voice concerned, but then there is a hand tugging on his left hand and Jaskier is torn away from the wrecked place, falling into a plush mattress. 

“What the-“ and then he feels his stomach churning and he understands what just happened. _Damn mages and their portals_. “Where are we?” 

“Still in the mayor’s house,” Yennefer says, lacing her dress properly as she sits up. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

Jaskier looks at his crushed hand, feel the way the bones are fractured in multiple places, and tries not to vomit again. “Am I supposed to thank you for trying to get us all killed, or for leaving us in the same insane house where we all just almost died?” 

“You’re exaggerating,” she rolls her eyes and grabs his hand, which makes him yelp in pain. She gives him a severe look and he bites his lips as she examines the wound. “I had it under control.” 

“That’s one of your favourite things to say, isn’t it?” Geralt groans, looking slightly sick, and if Jaskier had to guess, he would say he is not particularly fond of portals either. “You had shit under control, that’s what you had.” 

“I got us out, didn’t I?” Yennefer bites back. “If you hadn’t been the one to step forward and send everything crumbling, we would be fine.” 

“If I— That’s rich, coming from the one who tried to capture a Djinn in her body! That wasn’t exactly a brilliant idea either, your highness,” he snarks back. 

“You are an immature, childish,” Yennefer snarls at Geralt as she starts retrieving all the splinters from Jaskier’s hand, “selfish man and I cannot believe you would ever consider giving everything up for someone’s life! Your friend is lucky that I was here, because without you, he would be dead! And since you were the one with the wishes, it would have been your fault if he had. So if I were you, I would shut up and not giving people moral lessons!”

“Are you two children done?” Jaskier asks calmly, looking at them severely. “You sound like two children fighting over who is getting the bigger piece of cake, it’s exhausting.” 

It’s during moments like those that he feels his age catching up on him. They are both so young, probably under a hundred both, and he can see the chemistry between them. He is pretty sure that, were he not there, they would be at each other’s throats _physically_. It’s a bittersweet realization, but he knows witchers and sorceresses. He had had his own affairs with some in his time, although he had always made sure to keep it clear that it meant nothing more than sex for him, and that he didn’t have time to fall in love. _Ah, much good that did to you, Jaskier, you are not in love with anyone, not at all._

“You are younger than us,” Geralt says with a raised eyebrow. “You are the child compared to us both.” 

“Well then behave like the mature adult you are supposed to be, that shouldn’t be too hard.” He snaps back, and yelps as Yennefer uses a spell to restore all the bones in his hand to their proper state. “Melitele’s tits, you could have given a warning!” 

“What for? So you could brace yourself for the pain, fear it? No need for it.” 

He hums, finding it hard to argue with that. “Alright. Thank you.” 

“Finally, some gratitude from one of you. It isn’t like I stopped a Djinn from killing you twice, no, never.” She flips her hair and gets up, sighing. “I’ll have to find a new house. A shame, I quite liked this one.” 

“The mayor must have quite liked it as well,” Geralt grumbles. 

“Alright, what in the devil’s name is going on, the mayor, this house? I woke up from… I just woke up after I don’t know how many hours asleep and you two act as if I should know what’s going on. Anyone would please enlighten this bard, so that he may understand what is going on, and, if need of coin arises, turn it into a dashing ballad that will be sung in every tavern and royal court of the Continent? I dare say, I could probably make even the Usurper in Nilfgaard sing it!” 

Yennefer turns her lilac eyes to Geralt skeptically. “Your friend is insane.” 

“I’m aware,” Geralt grunts, and yawns. “Fuck, I’m exhausted.” 

“Have you not slept since I last saw you?” Jaskier grabs a pillow and tosses it at Geralt’s face, the witcher too surprised by the gesture to attempt to catch it, instead receiving it square in the face. “You absolute moron, how many times must I tell you to rest properly. Go to sleep this instant.” 

“I will not-“ 

“To sleep I said!” 

Yennefer observes the scene with an amused chuckle, and she outright laughs as Geralt complies to Jaskier’s bullying and lays down amongst the pillows that are laying on the ground. It takes but an instant for the witcher to fall asleep, and Jaskier rolls his eyes, standing up slowly. 

“A true child, that one.” He turns to Yennefer and nods his head. “I didn’t quite introduce myself. Jaskier, bard and occasional wrangler of unruly witchers.” 

She smiles wryly. “Yennefer of Vengerberg, sorceress. Why didn’t you get out when you had the chance?” 

“Ah, the dreaded question.” Jaskier chuckles and walks to one of the windows, sitting underneath it when he judges that it is far enough they will not disturb Geralt’s sleep. “I know someone who needs help when I see one.” 

“You are not just a bard, are you?” She is scrutinizing him, and he is reminded of Filavandrel suddenly. What is it with powerful people who can see through his curse? “You have something more… You are a noble’s son, aren’t you?” 

He laughs, he can’t help it. No one has ever offered him this excuse on such a beautiful, silver platter. “What gave me away?” 

“The way you speak. A bit old fashioned and pompous? Only nobles speak that way now.” She shrugs. “So, where are you from?” 

Shit. He hadn’t planned this far. He thinks as fast as he can, and then he remembers Renfri’s last letter. His darling Pelargonia had told him she had passed a small Redanian town, with an odious Viscount who had been left heirless at the death of his wife and child… 

“Lettenhove, in Redania. My father is the Viscount, I am just stretching my legs a little bit before I take after him. I’m sure you understand. And how could I deprive the world of my talents? I am, quite simply put, the absolute best bard on the Continent. It would be cruel of me to not share this wonderful gift of mine.” 

“You are quite fond of yourself.”

“A man must be, in this world,” Jaskier grins, trying to ignore his growing discomfort with the lie. “What were you trying to do with that Djinn?” 

She bristles and her eyes narrow. “I don’t see how that concerns you in any way.” 

“You are right, it doesn’t. Just chatting a bit while I wait for my friend to catch up on his much-needed sleep.” He closes his eyes, leaning back against the stone. “In truth, I wouldn’t mind sleeping so more as well, but I fear our adventures have left me too full of excitement.” 

“You were writhing in your sleep earlier.” She states this simply, as one would say that the weather is fair, but Jaskier hears the curiosity behind it. She is looking for something, looking for an answer that he cannot give her. “Why?” 

“Nightmares,” he shrugs. “It happens even to the best of us.” 

“What about?” 

He frowns, trying to ignore the way he feels discomfort growing through him fast enough to make his head spin. “It doesn’t concern you.” 

“I was the one who healed you.” She points this out calmly, but he can hear the summon in her words. “I believe I deserve to know what ails my… patient.” 

Yennefer of Vengerberg is curious, Jaskier realizes. The powerful sorceress wants to know what it is about him that is so special, and even if she tries to mask it under a carefully crafted mask of indifference, Jaskier knows. What surprises him however is that he cannot seem to discern why she is so curious, what motives she has for wanting to know more. He knows mages, he has seen them in action for a little over two centuries now. They always want something from people. What is it then, that she wants? It annoys him that he can’t figure out. 

“As I told you, it was simply nightmares.” 

“You yelled in pain, although your body was completely healed. Something haunts your mind, doesn’t it?” Her purple eyes are burning his skin, leaving him raw and exposed. There is something that she knows, he is sure of it. “Yet you do not speak of it.” 

“I don’t, no. There are things you want to keep to yourself, and things I want to keep to myself. There is no need for you to prod and keep searching, I will not tell you about my nightmares.” 

“You cursed someone in your sleep. Roland, I think is the name you uttered, before declaring him a cockless bastard. You added a few more insults, but I think the point had been made by that time. So, who is he, and what has he done to you?” 

“You won’t stop unless I talk, isn’t it?” He sighs, not waiting for an answer to his question. She wants knowledge, something she can hold onto and let slip out should the need arise. He wonders briefly how she came to end up here. There is no doubt that she was a court mage for a time. “I will tell you about my nightmares if you answer a question of mine.”

There is a long silence, only filled by the light snores of Geralt. Jaskier uses that time to look at what must have been a lavish room before they had destroyed half of the house. Geralt is asleep in the middle of it, his hair unkempt and splayed around him. He is dressed in a strange leather-like outfit, and Jaskier frowns slightly. That is not something the witcher would have chosen for himself.

“Only one question then, and if I don’t want to answer, I won’t.” Yennefer is looking at him, her eyes full of distrust. 

“Do you happen to be into women?” Jaskier grins. “Because you see, I have a sister, and I’m pretty sure—“ 

Yennefer laughs as he continues speaking, her shoulders falling ever so slightly. “Are you certain you want to waste your only question on such a thing? You could ask me anything you want, and you choose to try and set me up with your sister, who isn’t even present?” 

His smile is still there and he shrugs, relaxing against the stone wall. “Why not? She’s amazing, I will have you know. Her name’s Pelargonia and she—“ 

“You are unbelievable,” Yennefer laughs again, all the tension leaving her body. “Not many people would have done what you just did.” 

“Why not? I don’t care about being forward, and I don’t think you’re of any danger to me. Sure, you want to know things that are none of your business, but so does more than half of the world out there. Everyone is too curious for their own good, and I do count myself amongst them. It doesn’t mean I’m going to demand you tell me your story. We are strangers, are we not? I wouldn’t exactly be able to force you to sleep the way I just did with Geralt.” 

The sorceress hums and nods. “You are right. Thank you.” 

“You haven’t answered though,” he smiles and winks. “Are you into women?” 

She chuckles. “You are tenacious. Yes, I am. Does that satisfy your curiosity, or are you going to try and set me up with your sister again?” 

“Well, I certainly could tell you how amazing she is, if that’s what you are asking,” he winks. “But no, I think she would chop off my fingers if she knew I was interfering with her life like this. I’m sure she’ll get around to meet you at some point, anyway.” 

“She travels? Unexpected, from a noble’s daughter.” 

“Pelargonia is many things, and none of them goes well with meeting expectation of who she should be.” 

“Interesting names, you two have. Jaskier and Pelargonia.” 

Jaskier gives her a sunny smile, putting every ounce of energy he has into staying relaxed and looking confident. “What can I say, our parents wanted us to be special.”

She gives one more huff of laughter before settling quietly again, only a hint of a smile on her lovely face. Jaskier would probably try to woo her, were he not endlessly drawn towards the sleeping witcher in the room. It’s rather unfortunate that he is. After all, if he could just move on from this silly infatuation, he would probably be able to do so much more than just stare at Geralt’s sleeping form and wonder how it would feel to hold him in his arms. How he hates himself in a moment like this, when all hope has been ripped away from him again. 

“So, your nightmares.” Yennefer doesn’t look at him as she asks, rather using a spell to have some hot drinks appear in front of them. “Will you tell me about them?” 

The question doesn’t exactly chill him, but it certainly doesn’t make him jump happily. He accepts the cup of tea and sighs, taking a sip that burns his mouth. A sour taste of lemon hits him in between the waves of heat, and he takes another sip. 

“I was remembering an old friend. I thought him dead, but there are some things that don’t match up well, elements that make me wonder if he might not simply be… lost to me.” 

Yennefer hums quietly, drinking her own cup of tea in silence. The air is so still now, the world waiting with bated breath on the next words they will exchange. Jaskier doesn’t intend to say much more, or, to phrase it better, doesn’t know if he could even start to explain what exactly happened. How to explain that he had once shared his soul, his heart, his everything, with someone else, without her assuming that he was in love with Vesemir? Compared to what Vesemir and him shared, the very notion of love feels ridiculous to Jaskier somedays. This wasn’t love, this wasn’t affection. Their bond was a part of them, just like their arms or legs are. 

The first years without Vesemir had been difficult. Jaskier had thought he would die, had thought he was already dead in fact, and simply haunting the world. But no, he had been alive and real, stuck in a world without Vesemir, stuck in a world on his own. It had been so long since they had bonded that he had felt like he was born anew without his friend, and he had hated it. Still hates it, in fact. The feeling of missing something is ever-present. 

“How so?” Yennefer asks. “Can you not find him again, talk to him? If he is not dead, what stops you from finding him again?” 

Bitter laughter claws at his throat and threatens to overwhelm him, but he keeps it to himself. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than just finding him again.” 

Yennefer frowns next to him, but Jaskier doesn’t add anything more. He couldn’t even if he tried, in fact. He can feel the curse swirling in his throat, spreading through his body and dragging pain alongside it. There are moments he believes it to be growing weaker, and there had been that brief moment when he had felt Vesemir’s heartbeat, when he had thought that he could be back to who he used to be… But no. The curse is still there. It still feeds off of him, burning him alive and biting his skin with sharp teeth. 

“What about Roland? Who is he to you, that you hate him so much?” 

“He…” The words stay stuck in his throat. How does he even begin to describe what Roland did to him. It is all because of him that he is even here today. Were it not for Roland, Jaskier would still be in Kaer Morhen, would still be with Vesemir. He had been the one to hire Stregobor, after all. “He ruined my life.” 

“How so?” Yennefer has finished her cup of tea and now she is looking at him curiously. “You are quite young to have such an enemy already.” 

“I assure you, I’m older than you think,” he chuckles a bit, finishing his own cup. He has passed the two hundred years mark a couple of years ago, he thinks. He isn’t sure, in reality. He had stopped counting after a time. “But to answer your question… Roland took something from me, something I will never be able to get back. And because of it… I suffered many a loss. Without my sister, I doubt I would be here talking to you.” 

The sorceress doesn’t add anything else, simply nodding, and they both fall into a comfortable silence. 

He is halfway to falling asleep himself when a particularly loud snore of Geralt startles him, and the sorceress rolls her eyes a bit. 

“He could simply have bought a sleeping draught,” she mentions dryly. 

“Oh, believe me, had I been there before he had gotten the idea to fish around for a Djinn, I would have knocked some sense into him about using magical beings like that, but unfortunately for him, I wasn’t there.” 

“He listens to you.” She tilts her head to the side. “I have heard witchers are a lonesome kind. I didn’t know they had travelling companions, much less that they were likely to listen to them.” 

He snorts. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. Someone needs to keep an eye on that one, he is too likely to jump into troubles because he thinks it’s the noble thing to do.” 

“Many would find that an admirable quality.” 

“Yeah, and many find their deaths like this. Witchers already risk their lives with every contract they take, no need to be senseless in their everyday life.” 

He shakes his head, thinking back to Renfri, to her righteous anger. He knows that where Geralt is too noble, Renfri lacks some of the mercy Geralt shows. He doesn’t blame her for that. She is so young still, barely forty. Her world is anger and rage when she hunts. Sometimes, he wonder if that is not the better way to be a witcher, rather than his own rotten way that had been so caring. 

_Stop thinking about the past so much,_ he scolds himself. Nothing good ever comes out of it. 

“Dark thoughts for a bard who sings to the glory of the White Wolf.” She shrugs at the way he rises his eyebrow. “I’m not completely cut off from the world, of course I’ve heard of you two.” 

He starts to grin, and she rolls her eyes, standing up and dusting her dress slightly. She doesn’t look annoyed though, or at least, there is a sort of fondness underneath it all. Jaskier is good at reading people by now, and he can tell she has grown to enjoy, if ever so slightly, his company. 

“You are welcome to stay until I leave. After that, you will be the ones to deal with the mayor. After all, this is his house.” 

“One day, I’ll have to get the tale of how you got this house and how such a powerful mage as you ended up in Rinde of all places. I can already sense that it is full of tragedy and heroics.” 

She is the one to snort this time, a sound that he hadn’t been expecting from the kind of woman he had thought of her as. “Right, heroics. You’ll have to find your story elsewhere, bard.” 

With that, she disappears from the room, and he can hear her walking on the creaking stairs.

“Well, that was certainly something,” he says to himself as he watches Geralt tosses in his sleep slightly. “Enjoy your sleep, pretty boy, because you are getting an earful as soon as you are awake.” 

Jaskier yawns and closes his eyes. He tries to push away the images of Vesemir out of his mind, but his friend remains there, frozen in laughter and joy, the way Jaskier likes to remember him.Well, for once, he supposes it can’t hurt to get lost in his memories. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jazzy hands* Voila~ 
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed it!! If yall didn't see the notes above, I am going to scream again about [the absolutely amazing and awesome fanart Brothebro drew of Jaskier in this fic pre-curse](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/630707044987584512/saltytransidiot-s-witcher-jaskier-from-the) because it deserves all the love and i'm still very UwU about it. 
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos if yall enjoyed the fic!!
> 
> See you next week! For a different PoV... ;)


	8. An Idiot, But a Brave One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes home for the winter, and meets with his brothers again. Despite the relief of all of them being alive, there is something strange going on in the castle, and with Vesemir. With Lambert and Eskel, he is determined to find out what's wrong, even if it takes unsavoury measures to do so.
> 
> \-- 
> 
> Sad Shenanigans Ahead™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ 
> 
> I am back with this chapter, that has been titled "Sad Shenanigans" the whole time woops 
> 
> Also, slight warning for chapters ahead: I might have to change the number of chapter, changing from 14 to 15, depending on how the writing goes whoops
> 
> CW for this chapter: sleeping drug, alcohol, manipulation of a parental figure, and uh, general depression

Roach is reluctant to walk up the path covered in snow and ice and Geralt sighs. This isn’t the first time they come back to Kaer Morhen late, but it is definitely the first time they come back so late in the year. It had snowed before he had left Redania, and going to Kaedwen and then to the valley where Kaer Morhen is had been a bit of a challenge, and he had almost gone back south. 

It had been difficult to come back this year. There had been something going on with Jaskier, the bard more cagey and secretive than he ever had been before. He had changed after the unfortunate Djinn accident. Something had happened while Geralt wasn’t with him, or perhaps when he had been asleep, and it had made the bard ponder in silence often. When Geralt had asked what it was keeping him silent, which was a rather strange thing on its own, Jaskier had evaded the questions and started telling some inane story about the two previous years. 

Despite the change in behaviour, Geralt had enjoyed Jaskier’s company this year. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed his friend since their fight, and he hadn’t thought that he cared this much about the bard, but he did. Jaskier’s near death had assured that Geralt was aware of that now. It had been terrifying to see Jaskier choking on his own blood, and it had been even worse to see him nearly dying and begging Geralt to help. Geralt had been the one to cause this, had been the one to nearly kill him, and he would bear the guilt of that his whole life. There had been many a night that he hadn’t been able to sleep, haunted by the memories of Jaskier’s near-death, or by nightmares of Jaskier dying at his hands. 

“I’m fine, all dandy and right,” Jaskier had assured him when Geralt had attempted to apologize. “Didn’t get anything broken, got all healed up by Yennefer. There is no need for you to fret over me.” 

Still, he had stayed around Oxenfurt with Jaskier before leaving, which had only made him question what he truly knew of his friend. Jaskier had seemed to know many people well, and to know the city even better. He had seemed reluctant to lead Geralt around it, almost on the edge of his seat and waiting for something to happen. He had regularly left early in the mornings to come back only shortly before noon. This had surprised Geralt to no end, since he knew the bard to like lazying in bed and resting properly. It wasn’t uncommon for Jaskier to be full of energy and to be independent, of course not, but it was strange to see him actively repel resting up properly. 

“Are you sure you will be fine this winter?” Geralt had asked as he had finished preparing Roach for the journey ahead of them. “I can stay a little longer if—“ 

“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier had cut in with an amused smile. “You are a real mother hen, you know that? My sister will be here before long, and you need to get going. The path back to your home is sure not to be easy with this weather.” 

There had been a stumble in his voice, something almost knowing and yet, Geralt had never mentioned Kaer Morhen much to him. He couldn’t recall ever saying something about his own family, his home, if Kaer Morhen could be called that. After all, Jaskier did not speak of it much. Yennefer had said something about Lettenhove to Jaskier as they had parted with the sorceress, but the bard hadn’t said anything more about it. He had only ever mentioned having a sister, but Geralt couldn’t recall her name either. Had Jaskier ever told him that much? How much did Geralt truly know about his friend?” 

“Geralt!” A familiar voice calls out, and Geralt looks up to see Eskel running towards him, wrapped in a thick cloak with warm gloves. He avoids a patch of ice as he stops in front of Geralt and the two embraces warmly. “It’s good to see you, brother.” 

“It’s good to see you too,” Geralt answers, walking with Eskel towards the Keep. “What has you waiting outside? You aren’t one to look for the arrivals usually.” 

Neither are Lambert or Vesemir, in truth, but it would be more plausible of Vesemir to be waiting for them. The eldest wolf witcher likes to see them all back from the Path every year, and it has happened that he waited out for them a few times. He always lets a light out, even during storms, in case any other wolf witcher than them find their way back to their stronghold. 

Vesemir has never really abandoned hope that other wolf witchers may have escaped the Sacking. Geralt, Eskel and Lambert had all gotten lucky, that year. They had been late to come back to Kaer Morhen, but Eskel had been the first there, and he had only found six witchers still alive. There had been others still on the Path, but out of the hundred or so witchers that had belonged to the school of the Wolf, only twenty had lived through the Sacking. Since then, most of them had died in various accidents: there had been hunts that had ended badly, murders organized by people who did not want to pay a dirty mutant for the work, or even a simple accident during tracking. None of the instructors had been left alive, except for Vesemir, whom Eskel had found half dead in the ruins of the library, clutching one of the wolf medallions around his neck.

“Vesemir is making me go insane, I can’t stand his pacing and muttering. Old man is losing his mind.” Eskel sighs. 

“What do you mean?” Geralt frowns. 

“You’ll see,” Eskel pats his back lightly. “There is nothing else I can say than that.” 

“How enlightening of you.” Geralt rolls his eyes. “I’m the last one to arrive?” 

“Yeah, Lambert arrived two weeks ago. We weren’t sure you were gonna show this year. We started hearing songs about the White Wolf again, but…” 

It’s not hard to guess what they might have thought. They have only each other anymore, four wolf witchers left on the whole Continent, and if one of them were to die, he isn’t sure how they would all handle it. They have known each other since their childhood as well, all of them relatively close in age, and Vesemir had been one of their instructors. Now, he is almost like a father to them, making sure that they are well-fed during the winter and that they regain a proper weight before setting out on the Path again. 

Geralt would find it hard to admit it to the man himself, but he always looks forward to seeing Vesemir, to the warm embrace that he is sure to give him. It has happened that, throughout the year, Geralt thought back fondly of Vesemir’s nagging about the maintenance of his swords and armour, as well as the care he gives to his horse. 

“I’m fine. The bard found me again.” He hasn’t told anything to his family about Jaskier, beyond that a bard had decided to follow him around and sing about his life on the Path. “Decided I was worth his time again. Was probably bored though.” 

“I see that you still are a man of many words,” another voice joins in as they pass the gate of Kaer Morhen. Lambert is perched on the ramparts, playing with a dagger, and he shoots a quick grin at his brothers. “Good to see you, old man.”

“I’m only five years older than you,” Geralt says drily. “You want me to start calling you kid?” 

“You could fucking try,” Lambert says and jumps down, his knees popping slightly as he lands, and he tucks the dagger in his belt. “Come on, don’t be cranky, grandpa, give me a hug.” 

Geralt gives him a shove and Lambert chuckles, before they are both drawn towards the other, embracing each other warmly. Unlike Eskel, Lambert has always been more on the snarky side. He has never truly accepted becoming a witcher the way Geralt has, or the way Eskel has resigned himself to it. When they had been younger, he can remember Lambert staring at the witchers starry-eyed, and then the trials had happened, and he had returned bitter and angry against the whole world. Geralt gets it, somewhat. Out of the ones that had passed the trials with him, only two others had survived. They had both died in the Sacking. 

“You haven’t changed,” Geralt remarks and grabs his shoulder, smiling a bit. “Though, why are you outside?” 

It is well known between them that Lambert’s blood runs cold, that he always seeks out the sunnier weather and the warmest place. They have found him more than once asleep in front of the fireplace on mornings, and Vesemir had spoke about clearing out one of the rooms with a fireplace for Lambert last winter, when the youngest Wolf had left. He is often the first one to leave, growing uncomfortable with the ghosts hanging over their shoulders quickly. 

“If I stay one more minute inside with Vesemir alone, I think I might use one of those daggers on myself.” 

“Charming.” Eskel comments. “He still going on about it?” 

“Hasn’t stopped,” Lambert sighs as they follow Geralt to the stables. “He keeps just… I don’t know. It’s fucking crazy, that what it is.” 

“What in all the hells is going on?” Geralt frowns again. “What are you two even going on about?” 

“You’ll see,” Eskel and Lambert sigh in the same breath. 

Geralt hums with another frown and finishes removing Roach’s saddle and his pack. He makes sure she is well settled for the winter, in between Eskel’s stallion and Lambert’s mare. Scorpion and Fireling are two beautiful animals, but to Geralt’s eye, none of them equal Roach. His mare is beautiful and swift, and she is sturdier than any others. She deserves the best of care, and he would usually spend more time to make sure she was alright when coming home, but his brothers are worrying him. 

“Alright, you fuckers, tell me what’s going on.” He says sternly, crossing his arms. 

“I swear, we could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe us. You really have to see it.” Eskel pushes him slightly. “Come on, let’s head inside.” 

Geralt follows his brothers, noticing the strange shine of Lambert’s new dagger. It isn’t really his style, daggers. They were all taught to fight with swords, and sometimes crossbows. Out of the three of them, Lambert is the one who is the less suited to sword fighting however, and it only mildly surprises Geralt that he picked up a new skill. The only thing that really catches him off guard is that Lambert found someone to teach him. Has Lambert made a friend on the Path? 

All thoughts of Lambert and possible friends leave his thoughts as he walks into Kaer Morhen. The Keep, usually well organized and tidy, is half in disarray. There are maps everywhere, some nailed to the walls, and piles of books are laying around. It looks like the whole library has been moved from its decaying tower to the main hall of the Keep. In the middle of it, leaning on a broad wood table, Vesemir is muttering. 

The eldest witcher’s hair is fading to grey now, losing all of its bright ginger shade, but that isn’t any shocking. The first thing that jumps out to Geralt’s eyes is that Vesemir does not have his ever-present armour on. He has armoured pants on, yes, but Geralt doubts that the man owns anything else, and the trousers are still comfortable to wear, but he doesn’t have anything else than a shirt on, a loose dark blue shirt. Well, that’s a slight exaggeration. Around his neck, Geralt can already see the chains that hold the two medallions that Vesemir keeps around his neck. 

“Where can he be…” Vesemir is muttering, flipping a book and half-growling at it. “He has to be somewhere…” 

“Vesemir?” Geralt is starting to grow concerned. 

“Ah, Geralt, good, good. I’m glad you are spending the winter with us this year.” He barely turns to look at Geralt while speaking, only throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Your room is ready, if you want to rest before lunch.” 

“It’s well past lunch,” Geralt frowns, looking at his brothers, who only shrug and shake their head. “What’s going on, Ves?” 

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. Don’t you worry about an old man like me.” Vesemir finally turns, and he grimaces; Geralt assumes that it is his attempt at a smile. “It’s good to see you, Geralt. Had a good year on the Path?” 

“Not half-bad,” Geralt answers hesitantly. He comes to embrace Vesemir and frowns. The man feels thinner than he had last year when Geralt had left. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m just fine, absolutely fine. Go settle in your room, I’m sure there are leftovers from lunch that you can have.” Vesemir clutches his shoulder, his smile more genuine this time. “I’m happy you are back.” 

“I’m happy to be back too,” Geralt smiles slightly, his worry not subdued just yet. “I’ll be right back.” 

“I’ll walk you to your room,” Lambert says quickly. “Eskel, mind getting us a bowl or two of stew?” 

Eskel shakes his head and evades the room in a few long strides as he heads to the kitchen. Lambert grabs Geralt’s arm and drags him away from Vesemir’s ghostly form. The man’s eyes had looked haunted, and his face more gaunt than Geralt ever remembers it being. There is something off about him, something pained and hurt that screams and begs to be let out. 

“What’s wrong with him,” Geralt asks as soon as they are out of immediate earshot. “What’s going on?” 

“We don’t know,” Lambert answers with a long sigh. “He has been like this since Eskel arrived, apparently. He has only accepted to take his work to the main hall yesterday, before that he locked himself up in the library. He keeps muttering something about finding someone, and he barely eats. When we talk to him, he doesn’t answer much. You saw him. Would you have believed us if we had told you about it?”

Would he have? Geralt doubts it. This is so far from the Vesemir he knows. His Vesemir, the man he has often thought of as his father in the last thirty years, is nothing like this. He is a man full of sorrow, yes, but he is a strong man, with a iron will and a determination that would make any king’s or emperor’s knees buckle. This was a witcher who had faced monsters that he refused to spoke off, who had survived the fall of the witcher’s caste. This was a man who had lost half of his soul and had still managed to stand back up and keep fighting. To see Vesemir like this, strained by something, it is almost like seeing Kaer Morhen fall again. 

“No,” Geralt agrees. “I just… he was already like this when Eskel arrived? He doesn’t even wear his armour anymore. He didn’t have his swords with him!” 

“I know,” Lambert growls as they get to Geralt’s room. “He hasn’t worn anything resembling defensive gear or weapons since Eskel first saw him this year. Hell, he hasn’t even asked how we were taking care of our weapons! He hasn’t even gone to check on the horses. There is something seriously wrong, and we can’t do anything to help.” 

Geralt tosses his pack on his back, looking at the room with a frown. It’s been a long year, and he had been looking forward to coming home, despite his reluctance to leave Jaskier. At the very least, he thinks, there will be something to tell in the spring when he meets up with the bard again. Though, he doesn’t think he will speak of his family. Jaskier doesn’t, so why should he? 

He turns his thoughts away from Jaskier. Vesemir is more important than him, at the moment, and Geralt needs to figure out what’s going on and how to best help him. He unpacks quickly and removes his snow-covered clothes, letting them dry in front of the small fireplace. He pulls on new trousers as Lambert settles on his bed, and shoots a glare to his younger brother. 

“What? It’s not like you’re going to sit on it any time soon, knowing you.” 

“Still my bed,” he swats at Lambert’s feet, who only shrugs. “Any idea who that “he” was talking about earlier referred to?” 

“None,” Lambert sighs. “We’ve asked him, but we haven’t managed to get a single answer that made any sense. He’s barely eating, you know?” 

“You are actually worried,” Geralt realizes. “This isn’t like you.”

“Me and Vesemir may never had had the best relationship, but I don’t want the old man to die. He’s family, just like you are, alright? I would prefer if he was nagging at me to clean up my swords and everything, rather than just… do that. It’s weird, and I don’t fucking like it.” 

Geralt feels a bit of fondness for his brother and sits on the chair in front of the fireplace. He warms himself up like this quietly for a second or so, and then looks up as the door opens. Eskel walks in, carrying a bowl of stew for Geralt. He gives it to the white haired witcher before going to push Lambert so that they may both settle on the bed. 

It’s only when they have finished wrestling and have nearly knocked over the nightstand three times over that Geralt huffs a laughter. Even with Vesemir’s state, this is still home, where he can find back his family and rejoice in a winter spent at their side. 

“Why did you come home so late, this year?” Eskel asks, still pushing Lambert with his shoulder, but the younger is giving back as good as he is getting. “You either come back on time or don’t, what gives this year?” 

“I was in Oxenfurt for a while,” Geralt grunts out while eating the stew. “Fuck, this is disgusting. Lambert, you cook this?” 

“I will have you know it is exquisite,” Lambert protests. “It’s got all that you need so eat and shut up.” 

“Did you put nekkers’ guts in this or what?” He grimaces as he takes another spoonful. “Remind me to never let you cook again.” 

“That won’t be too hard,” Lambert rolls his eyes, looking annoyed. “At least you have food.” 

“Right, right. Thanks,” he stops himself from tacking on an _I guess_ at the end of the sentence. He would rather avoid seeing his first meal in three days fly off because he irritated his brother. “Can you two tell me more about Vesemir?” 

Eskel groans and his head hits the wall lightly as he reclines it. “Fuck. He is a mess. We have to force him once a day, at least, and he doesn’t speak much, except to rant madly about “finding him.” It’s scary, how intense he is about it. I’m worried he is losing his head. Wouldn’t do us much good.” 

“I’m not losing any other wolf witcher,” Geralt snaps a bit, shaking his head when Eskel looks at him harshly. “I just mean, we can’t give up on him.”

“We are not giving up on him. We just don’t know how to help him.” Eskel crosses his arms. “If we knew who he was talking about at least. We could help him, at the very least, but since he doesn’t answer…” 

Geralt frowns, finishing his stew. Vesemir has always been the strongest of them, or at least he had seemed so. He had survived the attack on the Keep, had been nearly 200 years old when that had happened, and he had been the one to stay behind at the Keep, to make sure that the handful of wolf witchers would have a home to come back to during the harsh winters. He had taught Geralt, Eskel and Lambert all that they knew about sword fighting, without counting the hundreds of others he had undoubtedly helped. Vesemir was, is, a hero. Geralt won’t accept that he might be lost to them. 

“We need to figure it out.” He says finally, standing up. “We can’t leave him like that. He needs us, for once, so it’s our turn to take care of him.” 

“Never took you for the kind to give inspirational speeches,” Lambert snorts, but nods. “You’re right though. We’ve got to find out what the old man is doing, and how to make him come back to normal.” 

“I’m all for that as well,” Eskel nods. “What do you propose we do though?” 

“Try and figure out who he is talking about, and see if we can help to find ‘him’ , whoever ‘he’ is. It’s clearly someone important.” 

“He pulled out half of the maps who have survived the Sacking, and there is one he keeps on himself always. Seems it’s something precious to him.” Lambert says, sitting up. “We could try and figure out why that map in particular?” 

“Are you saying we have got to steal the map from Vesemir?” Geralt’s frown deepens. “He would kill us.” 

“He isn’t in a state to take down even a single drowner,” Eskel points out. “And he’ll understand, if we manage it. You said it yourself, we have to help him.” 

There is a moment of silence and Geralt thinks the idea over and over again. Trying to take someone from a witcher’s personal possessions is madness, and trying to take something from Vesemir even more so. But his brothers are right. This is seemingly the only option, and if it can give them a clue of who Vesemir is looking for so desperately, then it’s worth it. 

“Alright, I’m on board. How do we do this though? He won’t exactly let us take it from him.” 

Eskel and Lambert look at each other briefly, and Geralt suddenly feels like this was truly a bad idea. Lambert is, out of the three of them, the most inventive when it comes to causing mischief, but Eskel is a quiet storm, and the two of them together is a recipe for disaster. 

“We could just try and take it while he sleeps,” he tries to suggest before they say anything, but the scathing looks he receives only make him sigh more. “Listen, I just don’t want to accidentally kill him.” 

“No death involved,” Lambert says placidly, a small smile gaining on his face. “Just a copious amount of White Gull, some of my delicious stew, and your absolute priceless support.” 

“Are you suggesting we get Vesemir drunk?” Geralt asks, a small sigh of relief escaping him. “That is so much better—“ 

“Of course, we would need to slip something else in the White Gull,” Eskel continues, and the slight fear Geralt had been feeling comes back tenfold. “Some powerful sleeping drug, perhaps.” 

“Something that would really knock the old man out of this world for the next few hours, at the very least,” Lambert continues. “Of course now, we would need to have that on hand, and I certainly don’t, and neither does Eskel.” 

Geralt doesn’t like this, doesn’t like it one bit. He knows his brothers, he knows what they are about to ask him, and he doesn’t know how he can refuse them when the situation is so difficult. Still. 

“I’m not breaking into Vesemir’s stash of plants. Who knows what I would find there? It’s not like I can just… take a bit of everything. We have no idea what he has in his room.” 

“No, we don’t,” Eskel agrees, and it feels too easy. “So that’s why Lambert needs to get in there.”

Geralt frowns and crosses his arms. “None of us are breaking into his room. Last time we _tried_ , he made us make new bricks for the eastern wall. I’m not doing that again.” 

“He won’t notice in the state he is in right now,” Eskel insists. “Listen, Lambert is the best one at potion making, and he knows better what can be mixed with some White Gull to make Vesemir sleep for a good few hours. He won’t even know that we got in there!” 

Somehow, Geralt doubts that. Vesemir can always tell when something is slightly different from usual, and he always knows which one of them is responsible for it. Geralt would ask if it were a side effect of his mutations, but he knows that it is simply that Vesemir knows them like no other. He raised them from childhood, until they left the Keep, and even afterward he made sure that every winter they were alright. 

“There must be another way to do this. We can’t just… There must be something else!” He is pacing now, feeling a bit like a caged animal. It feels wrong to trick Vesemir like this, but he is afraid that there is nothing else they could do. “I could try to ask him what’s going on, maybe he would answer me?” 

“Geralt,” Eskel sighs and stands up, walking closer to Geralt. “I know you don’t like the idea, and we would all prefer if we could be honest with him. But this is the only solution. Vesemir is… He is making himself sick. And we can’t let that happen. We need to help him. And if the only way to do so is to do things he has strictly forbidden us from doing… I’m ready to take that risk. So is Lambert. We don’t need you to be with us, but we would rather not have to fight with you.” 

The white haired witcher groans and turns away from Eskel. He had been closer to him than to Lambert when they had grown up. They had spent all their time together, causing chaos and mischief all over the place, until the elders caught and punished them, at least. They had been so close that they had wanted to pass the Trial of the Heart together, but Vesemir had strongly opposed to it. There are no more twinned souls now, and even if Geralt and Eskel had attempted it, there is no saying they would have succeeded. It still saddens him sometimes. Is that why Eskel and Lambert feel so distant sometimes? Should he have insisted? 

This is neither the time nor the moment, but Geralt can’t help feeling drawn to that memory now, as Eskel puts his hand on his shoulder. There had been a time that this would have meant the world to Geralt. Now, since Blaviken, since the Sacking, since he set out on the Path, alone for the first time in his life besides the brief trials and tests they passed throughout the years, he feels empty of everything. The world lost its shine and all the bright colours have been leeched out. The only moment they come back is when he is here, when he is home with his family. Jaskier helps too, makes everything temporarily better. And Geralt is losing neither his family nor Jaskier again. 

“Fine,” he nods finally. “What do you need me to do then?” 

“You’ll be the one to make the White Gull,” Lambert says. “You’re pretty decent at mixing it, and if you make it strong enough, we won’t have to wait too long until Vesemir passes out, what with what I’ll hopefully find to put in his drink.” 

“I’m going to be distracting him,” Eskel announces. “I’ll be trying to help him with whatever he is doing, though there is no guarantee that will work. It’s mostly to keep an eye on him while you two are off doing what needs to be done. Meet you in an hour in the kitchen? You should find everything you need for the White Gull there, Geralt.” 

“You had already been planning this,” Geralt realizes. “How long were you going to wait until you did this?” 

“Well, the plan was to wait either until you had come homer until it became too much. If you hadn’t showed up today, we would probably have tried tomorrow.” Lambert answers, standing up. “We were starting to get worried about the old man.” 

Geralt sighs and grabs his gloves in his pack, knowing that he had better protect his hands to brew the alcohol. There are reasons only witchers can handle it, and the high toxicity of it is not the only one. There are a few ingredients that are poisonous, even to witchers, unless brewed correctly. He can remember being young, before his trials, and being distracted as the potion professor taught them how to make White Gull. He doesn’t remember who it was, the professor, only that he had died right after they had passed the trials, and that he had always been distracted by his kindness in his class. Eskel had teased him endlessly for that. 

He has gotten marginally better at it now. He pushes the thoughts of the past away and nods to his brothers, the three of them parting in front of his room. Geralt heads to the kitchen quietly, avoiding the main hall. As he passes by the side of it, he can hear Vesemir moving maps and talking to himself, although he can’t discern what the man is saying. 

The kitchen is just as he remembers it, old and quaint, and fit to serve a hundred people. Now, it’s too large for just the four of them. It doesn’t matter anymore. Geralt ignores the memories of his youth spent here, learning how to cook for himself on the Path, learning how to feed the large number of witchers that came home over the winters. He ignores the ghosts that swirls around his vision as he starts brewing the alcohol. 

There is something different this year, he supposes. Usually, he is able to keep his mind away from all of those who died in the Sacking or in hunts gone wrong, but with Vesemir’s state, the whole place feels wrong. There is something oppressive about the emptiness of the keep. His mind is tricked by the lights and shadows, almost expecting to see someone else appear. 

When Lambert and Eskel arrive in the kitchen, he is relieved. The White Gull is nearly finished, only needing a couple more minutes and then some cooling time before they can drink it, and Lambert puts something on the table. The glass bottle is small, but Geralt recognizes its components. Ground hellebore. A poison which, while it doesn’t kill witchers, can induce hallucinations and nightmares, as well as make them sick. 

“This is what you decided to take? We’ve got plenty of that around.” 

Lambert shrugs. “This one’s mixed with poppyseed, which we definitely don’t have. It will negate the vomiting side effects that are possible when eaten this way. After all, we said we were trying to avoid killing him, right? With how little he has been eating, if he gives back anything I’m not sure he’ll survive it.” 

The thought is grim and Geralt grits his teeth. He hates this, hates how casual his brother acts. Lambert isn’t big on emotional display, and Geralt has been around him long enough to know when something affects him and when it doesn’t. Clearly, Lambert is worried about Vesemir, and he is doing his best to help, but his nonchalance only make Geralt angry. He doesn’t want any of this. He wants to have Vesemir back to who he really is; an energetic old man who nags after them and who worries too much. Their father. 

“Let’s do this,” Eskel says, stepping in front of Geralt and turning him away from Lambert. “We all want the situation to be resolved as quickly as possible.” 

Geralt nods tersely and pours some of the White Gull in a bottle, before sticking it outside through one of the open windows. The snow and ice of mounting winter storm should help it cool down in barely half an hour, and until then they can prepare a simple meal. Lambert offers to make more of his stew, but Eskel and Geralt grimaces at that, and the youngest wolf huffs before going to sit at one of the table. 

“I’ll just prepare the sleeping draught then, fucking hell.” He continues grumbling under his breath and Geralt smiles slightly. This feels slightly normal at least. 

As they cook, Geralt catches up with Eskel, asking about his year. He hears about the contracts he took in southern countries, venturing even as far as Nilfgaard. There are worrying news from there, apparently, and Geralt frowns as he hears about the Usurper’s growing army. It seems that taking over Nilfgaard was not enough for the man; he is trying to go against Cintra as well, to take over the northern kingdoms. 

He thinks of Cintra more then, thinks about Pavetta and Duny, about their child who must be nearing two years old now. A child he bound himself too. Jaskier’s words as they had separated comes back to him, and he winces slightly. He had acted cowardly indeed, but there is nothing he can do to fix it now. He can’t co back to Queen Calanthe’s court and demand to see his child surprise. She would, undoubtedly, try to have him be killed simply for the audacity of showing up at her court. 

“Something else is on your mind, brother,” Eskel notes calmly as he looks at the roasting meat in the oven. “Something has been for the last few winters.” 

“You have heard something,” Geralt sighs. “Ask your question, rather than turning around the pot like a bee around honey.” 

“So it is true,” Eskel chuckles. “You have gotten more poetic since you have started this companionship with that bard, Jaskier was it? And yes, I have heard something. Rumours talk of a witcher who claimed the Law of Surprise at a royal court, but who left without taking his prize, and considering that Lambert isn’t about to set foot in a royal court, I assumed it was you. Didn’t help that they said it was a witcher who looked like a ghost.” 

“Damn it, I’m not a fucking ghost,” Geralt growls. “I’m just pale. The trials fucked me over, can’t people get that?” 

“Seems your poet does,” Lambert says from behind, something taunting in his voice. “The whole Continent has heard of the White Wolf’s great deeds, and how courageous and heroic he is.” 

“Jaskier is a friend, and he is an idiot, over everything else. He always exaggerates everything. And since when do you stop to listen to minstrels in taverns?” Geralt looks at him questioningly. “Last I heard, you were more likely to break everything in a tavern than to sit down to enjoy a song.” 

Lambert shrugs and doesn’t answer, turning back to the mixture he is making, and Geralt frowns again. His brother is hiding something. 

“So?” Eskel jostles his shoulder. “Are the rumours right, at the very least?” 

“You asshole,” Geralt groans. “Yes, fine, alright. I claimed the law of surprise and fucked up royally. Now I’ve got to find a way out of it.” 

“You can’t get out of it,” Eskel reminds him, and Geralt gulps slightly. Right. Child of surprise are a sensitive topic around him. “You’ve just gotta step up and do the right thing.” 

“We don’t exactly have a stellar records with that.” Geralt sighs. “Doing the right thing would be to leave that kid with their family. I can’t go to Cintra and demand to see the royal baby, because it belongs to me or whatever. What even would I do with a baby?” 

“I dunno,” Eskel shrugs, adding some herbs to the meat, not avoiding Geralt’s eyes but definitely not meeting them either. “Could raise it. It can’t be a witcher anyway, not anymore. We don’t have a mage anymore, and we don’t have the formulas for the trials. Could just… I don’t know. Train it properly, take care of it.” 

“We aren’t exactly the caring type. We have enough scars each to prove it. And come on, kids need a family and shit. I can’t provide that.” 

“Yeah.” There is a bit of silence and Geralt retrieves the bottle of White Gull, checking that it is cold enough. “They never thought to teach us how to be a fucking caretaker, I guess. A damn shame. We are the last witchers of the wolf school, and we aren’t even allowed to have a family outside each other.” 

Eskel’s words stay hanging in the air as they prepare the rest. How bitter is he truly, how bitter are they all? Geralt had never realized how much this annoyed him, how much he was infuriated by the fact that no one else could ever understand him the way his brothers and Vesemir do. As much as he loves Eskel and Lambert, there is a part of him that yearns to have connections with others. He can’t even manage it with Jaskier, despite the shit they have gone through together. He is always waiting for Jaskier to leave him. After Cintra, he had thought it would be the last he ever saw of the bard. He had hated himself for it, but he had believed that Jaskier would be better off without him. Out of harm’s way, at the very least.

“Alright you two gloomy assholes,” Lambert claps Eskel and Geralt’s shoulders. “Stop being so fucking dramatic. We’ve got each other, at the very least. And I’m going to bother the hell out of you until we can’t even stand to see each other anymore. That good?” 

Geralt chuckles and turns around, drawing his brothers in his arms and enjoying their embrace. “Yeah, that’s good.” 

Eskel repeats the same thing, and they stay like this for a couple of minutes, enjoying the proximity to each other. They have always been close, they have always thought of each other as brothers, but it is even stronger now. Now, they are the only people they have left who will know what the others went through, and they are a family beyond any human understanding. 

“Time to get our favourite old man drunk,” Lambert says and grabs the bottle that Geralt prepared, pouring the transparent mixture he prepared in it, and shaking the bottle strongly. “Nobody else drinks the White Gull but Ves, understood? I’ve put enough of this shit to make a bull fall asleep, and I’m not getting your sad asses up to your rooms.” 

Laughter sounds in the kitchen as they leave, bringing with them some of the meat they prepared. 

In the main hall, Vesemir is still staring at a map, a book open on the table next to it. It’s a strange one, and Geralt doesn’t recognize it as they near the table. 

“Ves,” he says and clasps Vesemir’s shoulder, turning him away from the table. “Come have dinner with us? We’ll let you go back to what you’re doing after, but it’s been a year. I would like to hear about you a bit.” 

“I really should-“ 

“Come on Vesemir,” Eskel says and pushes him towards one of the other tables, a bit farther away from the fireplace but still in one of the well lit areas of the main hall. “You can take a break for a few minutes. Geralt just arrived, it’s time for a celebration.” 

Vesemir frowns, and looks at Geralt, almost as if he hadn’t realized that Geralt was indeed there, that it had been Geralt speaking earlier. He hums and nods, settling at the table with them.

“Alright, but I must get back to my research after. It’s too important, he needs me.” 

“Of course,” Eskel nods and serves him some White Gull. “A few sips, to celebrate that we are all home, a bit of meat, and then you can go find him. We know it’s important.” 

Vesemir nods and takes a gulp of the alcohol, nodding with approval. “Good one, freshly made? A bit flowery, I think. Come on, give me some more Eskel.” 

Geralt thanks all the gods that Vesemir loves White Gull the way he does. Eskel pours some in their own cups, but they are all careful not to drink it, only eating the meat in front of them. It’s juicy and delicious, and there are a few jabs exchanged about how Lambert should learn from them, but they remain quiet overall, all anxiously waiting for Vesemir to fall asleep. 

The old witcher yawns and tries to stand up, but he falls back on the bench, and Geralt puts an arm out to stabilize him and stop him from falling down. 

“You alright Ves?” 

“Yes, yes,” the other witcher waves the concern away and grabs the bottle of White Gull, pouring himself some more. “Just need a bit more of this, an excellent batch. You brew it Geralt? Lambert’s always too flowery, and Eskel hates making it.” 

“Yeah,” he nods and pats Vesemir’s shoulder. “I did. Thought you would enjoy it.” 

“Right you were, my boy,” Vesemir says, his speech slurred. “An excellent batch…”

This time, it’s Eskel who stops him from falling, reaching over the table in order to keep him upright the time Lambert and Eskel move. Vesemir is deeply asleep, snoring already and looking peaceful. Although, that might be the wrong adjective. Even now, his brow is furrowed and his fingers twitch in his sleep. 

Geralt grabs the map and leaves it on the table as they carry the eldest witcher to his room, the three of them struggling to coordinate properly through the stairs. After much swearing and many annoyed looks thrown towards each other, they finally manage to get Vesemir settled in his bed. Lambert is the last to leave the room, and Geralt doesn’t miss the way he pushes the blanket carefully over Vesemir’s resting form, almost lingering to watch him sleep. Out of the three of them, Lambert has always been the one who demanded the most affection, despite never voicing it. 

“Alright, let’s find out what we can,” Geralt sighs as they go downstairs. Sleepiness is starting to creep on him as well, his body exhausted from the long journey to Kaer Morhen, and his mind having let go of most of his defences as he feels safe at home. “And then let’s get some sleep.” 

The two others nod, and they grab the map before going to settle in front of the fireplace, to get the most light, as they unfold the small square of paper. 

It doesn’t looks special in any way, Geralt notes as he looks at the map. The paper is old, but the Continent still looks the same. There are a few towns marked, Novigrad, Cintra, Vizima… Nothing spectacular. What is it that Vesemir finds so precious in this map? Why does he keep it on himself? 

“Must be a memento,” he mutters as he looks closer at the map. 

“There is something written behind,” Lambert points out, and when Geralt turns it around, he reads aloud. “‘Next year’s track? What do you say, Ves? - J’… Do you think this could be…?” 

“Julian,” Eskel breathes out, and the same gasp is heard through his brothers. “Vesemir’s twin soul.” 

“Fuck.” Geralt swears and puts down the map. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” 

They have all heard about Julian. They can’t really remember him well; he is a flash of blond hair in Geralt’s memory, a laugh escaping Vesemir’s mouth, a kind smile, but nothing more. Vesemir has talked to them about him briefly though, and always with an intense sadness in his voice. He has talked about his death, most importantly, about the day he had left Kaer Morhen and had never come back. They all wish they could forget the way he had sobbed when Eskel and Geralt had announced that they were thinking about being twin souls, about passing the Trial of Heart together. 

“Don’t do it,” he had said, his voice full of a sorrow that they had been too young to understand. They had only been sixteen, after all. “It will leave you hollow when the bond is broken. When you feel the heartbeat of your other half disappear… You have never felt pain until then, I assure you.” 

They had learnt more throughout the years. Vesemir had not often talked about Julian before the Sacking, and he had not been well liked by the other elders, although he had been always loyal and always there for his fellow wolves. He has always kept around his neck two medallions however, and many of the elder witchers had sneered when they saw it. 

Geralt remembers the oldest witcher, Roland, the one who had chosen him for the extra trials… He remembers the way the man had hated Vesemir. There had been more than one scuffle between the two witchers, and Vesemir back as good as he had gotten. There had been a moment when Roland had tried to take away Vesemir’s second medallion from his neck, and Vesemir had reacted more violently than he had ever before. No one had even had the time to move that a finger had been severed from Roland’s hand, and three witchers had been needed to restrain Vesemir, who swore in elder. Roland had been drunk that night, drunk and meaner than he usually was, and he had ordered Vesemir whipped until he passed out. Vesemir had not yielded, his eyes so full of hatred that Geralt had wondered how this had not already blown out of proportions. He had been only 30 then, and the story of Julian had been a vague one. 

“He can’t believe he is alive,” Eskel sighs and looks at the map over again. “It’s madness. It’s been what, a hundred years?” 

“Less,” Geralt grunts, leaning on the table in front of him and trying to focus more on what is happening around him. “Seventy years. He taught us, didn’t he? Don’t remember him much but Vesemir always said he loved teaching.” 

“Right,” Eskel nods. “Ves said Julian died though. He said he felt him die. Right after his expulsion from Kaer Morhen, didn’t he?” 

“Something like that.” 

Lambert isn’t saying anything, staring at the map intently. His hand trails on his dagger, and he takes it out, running his fingers over it in an overtly familiar way. Geralt examines him, wondering what it is with him. A dagger, being quiet in moments like these, and the insistence to help Vesemir… There is really something different about him, and Geralt would like to know what it is. Questioning Lambert wouldn’t lead to any good though; rather, he would close up and stop talking completely, not saying anything to anyone until he had decided it is safe again. 

Eskel speaks again, and Geralt turns to him. They discuss a bit over what that could mean, whether Vesemir is truly losing his mind or if there might be complications with the breaking of the bond, phantom pains that Vesemir had not mentioned until then. Maybe the Trial of the Heart isn’t made to be carried by one person, and Vesemir is going made after having to bear its whole burden on his shoulder for 70 years? It doesn’t make much sense, but—

“What if he is really alive?”

Lambert’s question takes them aback, and they turn to their brother in one fluid movement. He has opened a book and is looking at a page intently, the frown on his face more curious than full of anger. He flips it, turning it to the next page, and then looks up at his brothers, who have their mouth half agape. 

“Well? Don’t you two think it’s worth considering?” The youngest wolf witcher crosses his arms, standing upright again. “Before accusing Vesemir of having lost his mind, we could consider that he is telling the truth. His Julian is alive.” 

“Lambert, that’s impossible. Vesemir felt him die, he told us so.” Eskel says. “He carries his medallion with him everywhere, he keeps it around his neck! No wolf witcher would leave their medallion behind if they were alive.” 

“Vesemir said he was banished. They could very well have had him remove his medallion and his swords. They threatened to do that to me once or twice, when I misbehaved.” Lambert keeps his arms crossed, his eyes full of righteous fury now. “The elders weren’t exactly known for being kind or forgiving.” 

“They wouldn’t have banished someone without reason,” Geralt tries to reason, but the very words leave an ashen taste in his mouth. “And it doesn’t change that Vesemir felt him die.” 

“What if there is a spell on Julian, and that’s why Vesemir can’t feel him?” 

“No magic can hide a twin bond. And we would have heard of another witcher by now,” Geralt sighs. “There hasn’t been any old witcher found. And why wouldn’t he have come back here, after the Sacking? All the elders but Vesemir died.” 

“How could he know that?” Lambert shrugs. “Witchers of other schools don’t know how many of us there are still left.” 

There it is again, Lambert’s strange caressing of his dagger. Why does it intrigue Geralt so much? What is it exactly that Lambert is hiding, so carefully and yet carelessly? 

“We don’t exactly socialize with other schools,” Eskel points out. “And let’s imagine that Julian _is_ alive. How do you explain that Vesemir hasn’t felt him in over seventy years? His death is why Vesemir chose to stay here. He chose to change things here. Didn’t really succeed, but Julian’s death still made him decide to retire from the Path, after only a hundred and fifty years spent on it!” 

“I don’t know everything,” Lambert growls. “I just wish you two would stop acting like Vesemir has lost his mind! He has a map from Julian, or so we think, and maps from all over the Continent. He has books on curses and magic, a few retellings of the trials by the mages who were allied with the school, both from Aretuza and Ban Ard. He is looking into _something_ , and we owe it to him to try and understand what it could be! Even if he is going completely fucking crazy, he is family, for fuck’s sake! We swore to be here for each other after the Sacking, and I’m not fucking going back on that.”

There is so much despair in Lambert’s voice that it startles Geralt more than the words themselves. Still, it doesn’t mean he isn’t listening, and he feels shame rushing through him. His younger brother is right. They should be looking into how to help Vesemir and how to find Julian, if he is alive, rather than to find out if Vesemir is losing his mind. 

“So what should we do?” Geralt asks, looking at the map on the table. “This is some flimsy lead. This was written over seventy years ago, and most of it is useless now. The cities written on it are visited by most of us at least once a year, if not more, and if Julian was still there, wouldn’t he have tried to find a witcher?” 

“I don’t know what we do,” Lambert groans. “I’m just saying, we need to listen to Vesemir. We need to figure out exactly why he believes he is alive now, and not before.” 

“We should find out what really happened with Julian too,” Eskel points out. “If we know what happened, we might be able to track him down. Even just his corpse, or something. Seventy years ago isn’t too far removed for humans, we could ask questions around. If we knew what he looked like at least…” 

“We would have to ask Vesemir for that,” Geralt sighs. “We did just drug him so he would sleep while we investigate. We can’t exactly wake him up now.” 

“We also need rest,” Eskel says. “Especially you. You arrived today, and we have been active non-stop. You need to rest some. This can wait until the morning.” 

Geralt nods a bit, feeling relief that Eskel is the one to say it. “Right. One of you two will return the map to Vesemir?” 

His brothers nod, and Eskel punches his shoulder affectionately before he goes back to his bedroom, barely taking the time to remove his clothing before he slips under the warm sheets and the thick blanket. Sleep is hard to find; thoughts of Vesemir and Julian plague his mind, but also of Lambert. Two mysteries that he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to solve this winter have arisen. 

When he does fall asleep, he dreams of his youth and laughing in the courtyard, before seeing someone he doesn’t recognize with Vesemir, and then coldness envelops him as he is sent away, hands on his shoulders as they drag him away from the duo. 

When the morning comes, the first thing he hears is yelling. More specifically, _Vesemir_ yelling. Fuck. 

He rolls out of bed and grabs his shirt and pants, not taking the time to put on any boots or socks. He has never really been bothered by the cold of the Keep, not the way Lambert is. The younger witcher will spend winters grumbling and calling this place a heatless shithole, but he still comes back every year. 

His hair is a mess, all tangled, and he grumbles a bit, gathering a hair tie to keep it off his face. He thinks briefly of Jaskier, of the way the bard would scold him for that, and then pushes the thought away as he hears Vesemir yell again. There will be more time to think of his friend, now is definitely not the time.

When he gets downstairs, Eskel and Lambert are facing a stern, angry looking Vesemir, who is clutching the map in his hand. He has a hand on the bottle of White Gull as well, and Geralt winces a bit. Shit. They’ve been found out, and it doesn’t look good for them, not at all. 

“You stole from me,” Vesemir shouts again, and Lambert grits his teeth, his fists tightening at his side. “You drugged me and you stole from me, and now you have the gall to pretend it was for my own good?” 

“It was!” Eskel steps forward, but he is quick to withdraw when Vesemir steps towards him. “We just wanted to know what was going on! You have been withdrawn, and you have barely talked to us since we got here. You haven’t been eating, or barely, and I know you sneak back in here every night to work some more! We were worried.” 

“You had no right to break my trust like this,” Vesemir growls, his face full of rage as he waves the bottle. “And what the hell were you thinking, putting a sleeping draught with the White Gull? You could have killed me!” 

“We knew what we were doing,” Geralt says from behind, and Vesemir whirls around. This is worse than when they messed up as children, worse than when Vesemir had tried to fight with some of the elders. This anger, this unfiltered rage, they have never seen it, and Geralt wishes he had never had to see that. But this is Vesemir. This is his _father_. “Would you have told us you were looking for Julian, if we hadn’t done that?” 

“How-“

“We read the map,” Geralt says as he moves forward. “And it makes sense. There is only for him that you would put yourself in such a state.”

“We want to help you,” Lambert says, and he unclenches his fist, slowly reaching to take the bottle of White Gull out of his hand. “I’m sorry we drugged you.” 

Hearing Lambert apologize seems to be what snaps Vesemir out of his anger. He lets Lambert take the bottle, and he looks at the map in his left hand. 

“I felt him,” he says, voice trembling, and Geralt sees tears falling on the older man’s cheek. “I felt his heartbeat, he was alive, he was alive and then he wasn’t there anymore and-“ 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lambert reassures him and walks forward. “It’s okay.” 

Eskil and Geralt exchange a look, surprised at Lambert’s reaction. First, he had been surprisingly supportive of Vesemir the previous night, and now this? There is something definitely different about their brothers, something softer. If Geralt had to guess, he would say Lambert had met someone, but Lambert is well-known for hating most people. He hasn’t had a partner in almost thirty years. Even before that, he wasn’t keen on people much. 

“Better a lone wolf than a dead wolf,” he had snarled when Eskel had asked him about it. 

Vesemir sits at the table heavily and sighs again, his hands clutching at the map. “He was alive. I swear. I’m not crazy, I’ve lived seventy eight years without him, and before that I had felt him for a hundred and thirty five years. I _know_ he was alive. I felt his heartbeat, right here, in my chest, and he was in pain, but… He was happy to be suffering. He was seeking me out, I know it. I have to find him.” 

Eskel comes to sit next to him and nods. “Alright. We trust you. Let us help you, alright?” 

It is so disconcerting to see Vesemir feeble like this, looking for all the world like he has been hit by a poisonous blade. Discomfort crawls under Geralt’s skin again. They all have their weakness and their burdens to bear, but Vesemir has always seemed unbeatable. Stronger than the world. Since he came back, Geralt has been faced to this weakened Vesemir, and he isn’t sure how to approach him, how to make things right. He has never been the best at comfort, at emotions. 

He tries to imagine how he would feel if Eskel or Lambert were to disappear without a trace, without him being allowed to try and search for them. The feeling of it hollows him inside. But worse, the image of Jaskier laying in a pool of his own blood while Geralt can do nothing comes up in his mind, and he has to hold himself still. It has been haunting his nights since the incident with the Djinn, mixed with images of his family dying, and he cannot stand it anymore. 

“Those spots on the map.” He steps forward, until he is in front of Vesemir. “You think it’s where he would have gone?” 

“Maybe? I don’t know. It’s where we met up, when we went on the Path still. He made friends along the Path, and they would let us stay there for a couple of days, and I… I never went back to check. I thought he was dead, I didn’t want anything to do with it anymore.” 

“We will check them out.” Lambert crosses his arms. “You stay here, at the Keep. We can’t afford to lose our home, not when we are all that’s left of it. We will divide it amongst each other, and come spring, we will go.” 

“I should go too,” Vesemir protests. “He is my twin soul, the other half of my soul. Even if he is dead now, I need to find him again.” 

“No. You stay here, and you protect the Keep. We will find him, or his body, and we will bring him to you.” Lambert is authoritative, and he doesn’t let go of Vesemir’s eye. “You need to recover anyway.” 

“I am still strong enough to beat your ass,” Vesemir grumbles, but after a few more minutes of discussion, he agrees. 

“Tell us about Julian then,” Geralt asks when they gather in the kitchen for lunch. “He might look different, right? You wouldn’t be looking into curses if you didn’t think so.” 

Vesemir nods. “I would know if he were still the way he was when he left. I… You also would know. He was special, too. But… He had a tongue sharper than a blade when he wanted to. It was impossible to argue with him. He was… not quick to anger, but he would have given his soul, fingers and heart to protect people. Too good a man to be a witcher, some of the others said. I knew him though. He loved being a witcher. He… Helping people was his way for him to exist individually. He was an idiot too. Went underpaid, or unpaid, and came back starving. An idiot, but a brave one. Just like you three.” 

Geralt smiles a bit, and jostles Lambert’s shoulder, who rolls his eyes but smiles back. “Keep going,” he tells Vesemir, and the old man seems more than happy to do just so. 

They’ll be alright, he thinks. Even if they don’t find Julian, they’ll be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) They'll be okay 
> 
> I promise ? 
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed it! Leave a comment or kudos and don't hesitate to come to my tumblr (@saltytransidiot) where I'm currently taking some prompts!


	9. Daughters of Oxenfurt and Cintra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going back to Oxenfurt during the year is always an experience for Jaskier, but this year, more so than ever. There is much for him to discover though, even about people he has known for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go again folks, back with Jaskier! 
> 
> This is a ... very bittersweet chapter, for me at least! Though, you get to meet Melissa, and I love her. 
> 
> CW for violence, canonical character death depicted through a painting, threats, slight injury.

It’s the first time that Geralt has insisted on going to Oxenfurt with Jaskier. Usually, he comes and goes during the year, but he hadn’t done that the previous year, not after the incident with the djinn, and it seems this year he isn’t doing this either. He seems to have a clearer plan of where to go as well, this year, and Jaskier would enquire about it, but he has no idea how to do so without seeming like he is poking into business that is not his. 

They have been growing closer since the Djinncident - Geralt had rolled his eyes when he had heard Jaskier refers to it that way, but he had also been smiling, so Jaskier has taken to calling it that, just to see some of the tension be relieved from his shoulders. Geralt pays more attention to him, listens better to his songs, even sometimes chips in with his own rhymes. Jaskier firmly believes that he does it on purpose, making them all so bad, but it always drags out a laugh from him, anyway. 

“What’s so important in Oxenfurt,” Jaskier asks as they near the academic city. “You usually are content to go on your way, staying on the outskirts of the city until there isn’t any contract anymore for you, and then you come drag me out of my glory. What gives this time?” 

Geralt snorts before answering. “Your glory, right. That’s what you call it when I found you drunk out of your mind and need to toss you in the river so you will stop singing dirty rhymes that call for everyone around to fuck you?” 

Jaskier grins and winks. “A shame it doesn’t work on everyone. Now, stop avoiding the question. What’s up with Oxenfurt?” 

“I’m looking for someone.” 

Now, that surprises Jaskier. “A contract? Didn’t know you took missing persons contract, especially not if they ask you to hunt people to one of the biggest city in Redania.” 

“It’s not a—“ Geralt stops himself, sighs. “I’m going to be meeting with my brothers there. We have to talk with a few people who live in Oxenfurt. You’re welcome to go play and sing wherever you want. I’ll come find you when I’m done.” 

“Who is it you’re looking for?” 

Jaskier carefully doesn’t ask about Geralt’s _brothers_. He knows who they are, Eskel and Lambert. He remembers them, fuzzily, from the last few years he was teaching. He doesn’t remember which ones they had been, what they had looked like, but he remembers telling them goodbye as he left. Two small forms that have gone hazy in his memory, holding onto a third one. The only things clear from that day are Vesemir and Roland, the blood that had pooled under his blade, and the feeling of loss as he had realized he didn’t have his medallion anymore. He will still sometimes wake up looking for it, looking for the now-forgotten weight around his neck. He hates it. 

He doesn’t ask about them because he knows the curse would break him if he did. He cannot say some names anymore, the blood pooling in his mouth each time he does. Vesemir is the first to come to mind, but Eskel, Lambert, Amerys.. All the names that had been tied to who he had been as a witcher, he can’t say them. He can still curse Roland in his mind though, and sometimes he forces himself to say the name, to growl the name under his breath until his lungs are filled with too much blood and he has to stop, to wait until the curse reels itself back in. 

“A friend we lost a long time ago now,” Geralt shrugs, and his tone is set in stone. By now, Jaskier knows better than to pry more. 

“I’ll go see some old friends in the Academy,” Jaskier says after a bit of silence. The gates are near now, and he can almost see the redanian guards standing there, their red and black uniforms unflattering on their out of shape forms. You’d think that as officers and soldiers of the Redanian army, they would at least attempt to be competent, but Jaskier knows soldiers by trade; he had to fight more than one battle with them at his sides, and they have rarely shown more than basic trainings. He feels a bit sorry for them. Truth be told. 

“Who?” Geralt questions, the same curiosity from earlier slipping back in his tone. “I’m going to be heading to the Academy as well. If you want to wait until I’m going there…” 

It sounds oddly like Geralt is actually offering to accompany him to the Academy, or at the very least for them to go there together. Usually, it is Jaskier who pokes at Geralt until he agrees to be his escort; he supposes this trip to Oxenfurt is truly surprises wrapped into one large mystery. 

“I have to stop at an office,” he shrugs. “See if they’ll have any positions available for me to teach this winter. It could take a couple hours though, so we could rather meet outside of the Academy, by the White Knight? You know the inn, I assume.” 

Geralt hums a bit, worry returning to his face. Every step they take brings them closer to Oxenfurt’s red tiles, to the way the sun glimmers on the still wet pavement. It is a beautiful city, certainly more so than Novigrad, and Jaskier would almost be proud to have made a name for himself here. Almost. He can never forget his true roots, the one place who molded him into most of the man he is today. 

He knows he had felt Vesemir’s heartbeat then. He is certain of it, and he will not stop his search to break the curse anymore. This is the real reason for his visit to Oxenfurt, after all. That winter, he had spent half of it with Renfri, half of it in the large library of the Academy. There are a few more tomes he hasn’t had the time to read and didn’t have the space to smuggle out of the library for the year. He will make sure that he hasn’t received any news from Cintra as well. 

Eist Turseach has sent him a few letters throughout the last three years; one had announced the birth of Pavetta and Duny’s child, a girl they had named Cirilla, and Jaskier had been invited to her naming ceremony. It had been while he had been separated from Geralt, so he had hurried there, enjoyed the sunnier weather for a few weeks, and then had gone back to his reclusion in Redania. It had been a welcome change of his routine then though, and looking back to it, Jaskier regrets slightly not having stayed there. Princess Cirilla had been a delight of a child, and Pavetta had enjoyed Jaskier’s company. The only one who had truly seemed hostile to his presence had been Queen Calanthe, but he had heard rumours, and he had seen her bloody grin when she had announced she had killed more elves at the Banquet. The fact that he was associated with the witcher who was bound by Destiny to her granddaughter was certainly a contributing factor to her dislike of him. 

He had seen the royal family of Cintra only three times since then, the most recent at the beginning of this year, before he had met with Geralt. Renfri had accompanied him down to the city, and then she had disappeared into the streets for a few weeks. When he had found her again, she had a red-haired woman in her arms and blood covering her left hand, and he had had to wait until she was down with her seducing before they ventured north again. His sister was more lucky in love and charm than he was, he thought as he glanced to Geralt again. 

“Don’t get into any troubles while I’m gone,” Geralt instructs as they pass the gate of the city a few minutes later. “I will meet you at the White Knight by sundown tonight." 

"You'll have enough time with your brothers?" Jaskier asks and he feels the curse curling in his stomach. It knows, so deeply tied to his psyche, the context of everything he says or thinks. It's waiting for him to try again, to ask about them and inquire more about his former students, so that it can inflict pain. "It can wait until tomorrow." 

"They'll be here, and waiting. Bound to give me an earful, but they'll be here." 

Jaskier chuckles a bit at that. Brothers never change. "Very well then. The White Knight, at sundown." 

They separate after the gates, each going their own way, and Jaskier heads towards the Academy, seeing Geralt heading towards the northern outskirts. It makes something in Jaskier ache to not be going with him, he is still foolishly in love with the witcher, still helplessly shadowing his every move.

Still, he does have a few things to take care off at the university, not only stopping by the office of the music and literature departments. It’s always a split decision towards which the messenger will be directed, if messenger there is. Well, if Renfri has left a message for him, it will be there anyway. She knows he sometimes drops by the Academy during the year, so he hopes that she will have sent him something. He misses her sometimes during the year, misses her company and the way she is full of life under her sharp tongue and anger. There is no one who can match her spirit, he is certain of that. 

The streets are dry enough that he doesn’t worry of potential mud or water pooling under his feet as he takes the direction of the Academy, and he allows his mind to wander. He remembers learning here, hearing about all the programs that made people famous and rich, but mostly, he remembers being in love and having his heart torn here. He had been completely enchanted by Valdo Marx; a grave mistake, he can admit that freely now, and it had cost him more than he had thought a romance would. Though, his bleeding heart had found some comfort in the written word and the way lyrics could change one’s life. 

When he had been young, when Vesemir and him had trained together for hours on end until blisters formed on their hands and they could barely breathe anymore, he would sing for his friends at the Keep during the winters. There had been joy in the Keep as he leaped on the table with one of the others, both of their voices mingling above the clang of cutlery and hands on wood. Julian had loved singing and dancing; Jaskier had made it his life. 

He stops first at the library, saluting the librarian, a grouchy old man by the name of Niell, and his assistant and granddaughter, Melissa. He had met Melissa when she had been just a child, maybe five or six, running around the academic library, only to be scolded by her grandfather soon afterwards. Often when he had time, he would come and sit with her, and sing her some lullabies and stories he was writing, and she had often sang with him. Now, she is a married woman, although he knows from Renfri that it is not the happiest of union. Jaskier really needs to ask Renfri to stop flirting with every woman who catches her eye. Or well. To stop sleeping with every woman who responds to her advance at the very least. 

“Hi Jaskier,” Melissa greets him, leaning over the counter and ignoring her grandfather’s disapproving glare. “It’s been a few months! Are you writing a new song?” 

“Something like that,” Jaskier chuckles. “I’m back on the road with Geralt of Rivia, so I can only stop here every once in a while, but I made the glorious city of the arts a priority this year.” 

She laughs, loud and bright, and he understands Renfri and her attraction to the blond woman. He remembers her too much as a child to be attracted to her, but she is full of life and joy, something that Renfri seeks just as much as she seeks people who will understand the jagged edges of her past. He knows she has never talked about her past with anyone else but him. After all, how could she? No one would believe the she is a former princess. They see a Cat witcher and that’s it, and most of the time she is content to let them. 

“How exciting!” She claps her hands and seems to suddenly remember something, whirling around with a gasp. “I’ve taken a side project that is sure to interest you, just wait a second!” 

He chuckles again and waits by the counter as she runs away, Niall grumbling as she leaves. “Still as lively as ever, that girl of yours.” 

“Can’t get her to sit still for ten whole minutes,” the man shakes his head, his fondness clear despite his disapproving look. “Wonder how her husband does it. A good lad, that Liam, but hasn’t got anything in that tiny head of his.” 

Jaskier laughs. “You haven’t changed a bit either. It’s good to see you, Niell. I half thought you would retire by now, but I suppose it’s impossible to wrench you away from your books.” 

“What, and leave Melissa in charge?” The old man snorts. “She is as likely to whip up half of the students into some frenzy because she is running around campus as to burn the library because she fell asleep during one of her researches.”

“She is not that much of a disaster just yet. Is she?” He adds on the question as Niell looks at him dubiously. 

“Judge for yourself,” the old man sighs as his granddaughter returns in a rush, nearly falling onto the counter as she giggles. “Be careful around here, Melissa!” 

“Yes, yes, grandda!” She singsongs the answer and pecks his cheek. “Oh, and I saw that professor of Elven History in the stacks again, Professor Arelia? I think she was looking for something. I told her you’d be around to help.” 

The man perks up at that and moves quicker than Jaskier has ever seen him move before, hurrying towards the direction Melissa pointed toward. His granddaughter and Jaskier exchange a look, and they both laugh for a few seconds. There is definitely something going on there, and it is quite amusing to see. 

“Professor Arelia arrived from Toussaint a few weeks after you left this spring, and since then they have been dancing around each other,” Melissa stage whispers, and Jaskier smiles warmly. It feels good to be gossiping like this, about something mindless that has no impact on anyone else than the people in this room, and that will not get him killed or maimed. “But enough about them! I have to show you this!” 

She extends towards him a bound journal, and he can see there are a few pages stained with ink already. Taking it in hand, he looks at it a bit curiously. There is a drawing stuck to the cover, a man dancing in a bright blue outfit, and Jaskier recognizes himself. Melissa has always been quite talented, after all, and he frowns as he sees a few marks on the his face, almost perfectly mimicking the few scars he had amassed through his life as a witcher. 

“What… Melissa, this drawing, how…” he doesn’t find his words. He is stuck looking at it, at the way he can see gold in the eyes, despite the fact that the hair of the man on the cover is still brown. “Who is it?” 

“I think it’s you,” she smiles gently, a slight blush on her cheeks. “It came to me in a dream. When I showed it to Pelargonia, she said I needed to show it to you. It was only going to be this at first, but … I had more dreams, and… sometimes they came with this.” 

She opens a page and there is a few words written on it. _Geasynn_ is the first one he sees, and he frowns. She shouldn’t be able to know all this. Melissa is human. She is nothing but human and… He looks into her eyes. 

“Melissa, dear. I need you to be honest with me. Do you swear you saw all this in dreams, and no one told you about it?” 

She shakes her head. “I swear, Jaskier. I wouldn’t lie to you. You’ve always been so nice to me! And your sister… Well. You know how much I like her. I would never trick you. I just saw this in my dreams, and I thought you would want to know. There is more though… I think you have to see the rest.” 

He follows her movements as she opens the journal further, and pages of drawings depicting his life flip by. There is his wolf medallion, silver and proud, and a buttercup crown, both intertwined, on one page, and he tries to not let his heart leap into his throat. Why is the curse not latching onto him now? Why is he not being burned alive from the inside, being made to choke on his blood? He keeps waiting for it to rip him apart, for Melissa to yell in horror as he half-dies in front of her. But nothing happen.

A scarred hand - _his scarred hand_ \- appears on the next page he glimpses, and he stops her from continuing. This is the curse. He knows what this image means. His hand is being mended, and he can almost sees the scars disappearing and being wiped. It’s almost like the drawing is moving, drawing him in. 

“Jaskier?” Melissa asks cautiously. “Are you alright?” 

Her voice takes him out of his own memories, and when he looks at her, she startles. He blinks rapidly, trying to see what about him made her react this way, and then she touches his cheek, unfathomably tender. 

“Your eyes,” she says with awe and wonder. “They were… Gold. Pure gold. Like Ren- Pelargonia, I mean.” 

“You know her true name,” he says in a gust of surprise. He can’t say anything else, doesn’t know how to react to her saying that his eyes were gold. Were they? Or has she been seeing things?

“I… Guessed. She didn’t tell me, in truth. I dreamt it, a few days after she left. I put it into this book, you know? There are other girls too, and a black sun, and a spear and… I don’t know what it all means, but she is Renfri, isn’t she? She was the one in Blaviken, with your witcher.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier admits, sighing softly. “She is. We met shortly before then.” 

“You are older than you look… What happened to you?” She tilts her head to the side, looking younger than the thirty-six years old woman he knows her to be. There is something almost ethereal to her, something frozen in time, and he takes her face into his hands, examining her despite her affronted gasp. 

She has deep blue eyes, darker than the stormy ocean, and he can only recall that specific shade on one person. Stregobor. But it isn’t possible. It _isn’t_. The mage has been dead for over thirty years now, and Stregobor would never have gone through such an elaborate stratagem. She isn’t him, but she belongs to his family. She has the same blood running through his veins. She has his magic, his curse on Julian, inscribed in her blood. 

“Fuck.” 

“Jaskier?” He is still holding onto her, and he lets go in a hurry when he notices that his fingers are tightening on her cheeks. The young woman winces a bit, but she doesn’t look shaken up. “Jaskier, what’s going on? I didn’t mean to upset you, I-“

“It’s not you,” he starts to say, stops. “Your family. Niell, you are sure you are of the same family? He didn’t take you in?” 

“What?” 

“Please, answer my questions!” Jaskier’s tone is almost begging and he hates himself for it. Even if, by some miracle, she is really one of his descendants, she can’t lift the curse Stregobor put on him. Melissa isn’t a mage, and certainly not one as powerful as that old bastard was, but she does have tendrils of Chaos pulling at her, calling out for her to notice them. An Oracle then. Those are most useful, and extremely rare. 

“No, I am Niell’s granddaughter,” she ensures, crossing her arms. “My mother was his daughter, her name was Theandre, and she died in childbirth. I don’t know much about my father, but Niell says he was an awful man, who took advantage of my mother. Called him a good for nothing charlatan…” 

“Did he ever tell you his name?” Jaskier presses again. If Melissa was six when Jaskier was in Oxenfurt, then she was born a couple of years before Renfri and Jaskier killed Stregobor. She could very well be his daughter. 

The young woman shakes her head. “You would have to ask him directly, but he won’t want to answer. He says that my father was the one who killed my mother, no one else, not childbirth. I never met him, but well… I have his eyes, I think. My grandmother had brown eyes, and so does grandda. What’s going on now?” 

“Nothing,” Jaskier lies, and flips through the pages. “Those visions, did you have any before those ones you are showing me?” 

She looks shy all of a sudden and plays with her hair, braiding it. “There was this one time… I don’t know where it was, but everything was in gold, and there was a woman screaming, and a white wolf… Then I heard about what happened at Cintra, with that witcher of yours, and I… I think I saw it before it happened.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She is an oracle, and a pretty decent one at that. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“You didn’t.” He sighs and looks up, trying to smile as gently as he can. “I’m the one who is sorry. This is a beautiful gift, and I don’t know how to thank you for it. I’m just shaken. This is… This is my story.” 

The curse burns slightly through his throat as he says it, but nothing as painful as he is used to. With every passing seconds, he is more and more convinced that Melissa is indeed Stregobor’s daughter, unfortunately for her, and that her blood bears significant resemblances to the one that created it appeases the curse. But if he can show this journal to Geralt, if he can move and get away, then this might be his way home. He might be able to go back to Kaer Morhen and, if the feeble hope that beats in his chest is right, to see Vesemir. To be with his other half, and exist again… It almost brings him to tears. 

“I figured as much,” she says softly and then opens to a page in the middle of the book, showing him empty pages. “It isn’t finished yet though…” 

“You haven’t seen everything?” He questions as he watches her, and then frowns as the last pages he sees his a city burning. “What’s this?” 

“I don’t know,” Melissa shakes her head. “I hoped you might? There is also this one…” 

This time, when she shows the previous illustration, Jaskier doesn’t stop the horrified gasp that escapes him. 

This looks alive, the people drawn breathing and dying in the picture. It shows a boat, cleaved in half by a rock amidst an angry sea, and clinging to it is a woman, golden hair wet with blood as a sword pierces through her stomach. A man is standing at the top of the rock, eyes red with a blood madness that makes Jaskier shiver. The scene is chaos and despair in a whole package, and Jaskier feels panic rising in his chest as he notices the Cintran flag flying above the shipwreck. 

“Pavetta,” he whispers, and the horror he had first felt is so strong that he feels dizzy now. He nearly falls down, but Melissa catches his arm and helps him to the nearest seat, sending the students sitting at the table away with a severe look. 

She brings the open journal back in front of him, and tears fall from his eyes. He doesn’t know if this has happened already or if this has yet to happen, but he can see the strokes of Truth behind it. Oracles don’t always know whether they see the past or present, and they often develop their powers when they are attached to someone whose life they can dig through. Melissa seems to have unconsciously chosen him, and she is picking up on everything that surrounds his life, be it near or far. 

“What does it mean,” she asks, sitting across from him. “Jaskier, why are you crying?” 

“This… This ship. This wreck. It was… It is? A boat sailing from Cintra… The girl you drew… Her name was Pavetta. Princess of Cintra, heiress to the throne, and daughter of Queen Calanthe.” 

Melissa looks at the image she drew stricken. “Are you… Are you sure?” 

Jaskier wipes his tears and taps the Cintran flag she drew with his other hand. “Do you know this flag?” 

The young woman shakes her head. “I barely know Redania’s flag, so if it isn’t Redania-“ 

“It’s Cintra. I went there only a few times in the last years, but I know the flag. And that hair… That’s her. The princess. The man standing above her though…” 

Melissa is shaking slightly across from him, and when Jaskier notices it, he closes the journal. Taking her hand in his own, he tries to find reassuring words to say, but he has little idea of how to go at that. How do you tell someone that they have inherited a power greater than many can understand? How is he supposed to look at this woman and tell her her father was a monster, when she is a joy? He can still remember her running around and calling out for him when he walked in. He remembers lifting her in his arms as she laughed and giggled. She is still so young… 

“Melissa?” Niell appears at their side, and Jaskier lets go of the woman’s hand. “What’s going on here?” 

“Nothing!” She jumps upright and needlessly dusts her skirt. “I’m just… I’ve got to go restock the shelves in the medicine section!” 

After that, she darts away so fast she is only a blur in Jaskier’s sight. He looks up at Niell and sighs, a hand still on the journal. 

“How long have you known?” He asks this quietly, but his eyes don’t leave Niell’s, and he can read the fear and guilt build there. “Niell. How long have you hidden this from her?” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the old man defends himself, moving away, but Jaskier follows him. “You should really leave, you’ve upset Melissa enough as it is.” 

“Listen to me,” Jaskier whispers through gritted teeth, anger rising through him. “If you don’t answer me, I won’t just be upsetting.” 

Niell looks scandalized and he opens his mouth to retort, but Jaskier is not joking. He is tired of not having answers. He needs to know if he is right in his hunch about Melissa’s parentage, and since when Niell has been shielding her from her true nature.

“I didn’t want to,” Niell finally answers, looking back proudly. “Her mother made me swear that I wouldn’t tell her about her father and what she could be. When she came to me with her first vision, she was only three. It was easy to tell her it was just a dream.” 

“You have known for over thirty years?” Jaskier does not yell, but he wants to. “Thirty years, Niell. She could have helped so many people and-“ 

“She shouldn’t have to! Just because she has a gift doesn’t mean she has to give herself away to others! She’s my granddaughter, and I kept her safe! Do you know what some people would do to her if they knew about her … her powers? She is _human_ , Jaskier. She’s only a girl! She can’t defend herself against the whole world. I did what I had to.” 

“You-“ Jaskier stops himself. Niell is right and he hates it. He wants to be angry at the old man, wants to shout and shake him, but what will it even change? There is no guarantee that, had he known that Melissa is an oracle before, she would have been able to help him. “Her father. Who was it?” 

Niell sighs, half relieved, half annoyed. “Anne never wanted to tell us who he was exactly, but she did say he was a mage. He lied to her, until she was pregnant. He had promised her a life of wealth and comfort, but he never made his promise good. I saw him only a few times; she was madly in love, barely seventeen my girl… I could do nothing to protect her. So I protected Melissa the best I could.” 

“You said he lied until she was pregnant,” Jaskier presses. He does feel sorry for the man, for the loss of his daughter, but he doesn’t have the time really. Not now. He has to know. “How?” 

“He said she only mattered if she could have a male heir. But… he had seen into the future, with a spell, and he knew Anne would have a girl. So he tried to have her lose the baby, but Anne, my Annie, she really wanted that baby, said she would rise her daughter right, and-“ Niell’s voice breaks. He passes a hand on his face, trying to keep his composure. “He cursed her. Said she would die before that child was ever born.” 

Well now. There is no longer any doubts. Stregobor is truly Melissa’s father. 

Jaskier swears quietly, and he grabs the journal, flipping to an empty page and ripping it, careful not to set the other pages loose. Niell watches him, befuddled, and when the bard asks for a quill, the librarian obeys with confusion. 

On the paper, Jaskier writes down a few words, explaining to Melissa what she is and what her powers are, as briefly as he can. Then, he writes a few instructions for her, folds the letter, and gives it to Niell. 

“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. “You did everything you could for her. But she will need to know more about her own past now. She needs to see a mage. A sorceress, perhaps. There are a fair amount of them around here. I’ve heard that Triss Merigold is passing through Novigrad, bring her this letter and tell her that a friend of Geralt of Rivia sends you. She will help Melissa.” 

“A sorceress?” Niell frowns. “It’s because of her kind that Melissa is like this. I don’t trust them.” 

“Trust them or not, Melissa needs one. Triss is a good woman, she will help for a small fee, and Melissa will get to decide if she wants to use her ability or not. Let her make that decision for herself now.” 

Jaskier digs through his pockets and takes out a small pouch of gold. There is at least three hundred coins there, an amount he had amassed over the last few months and had intended to spend at a nice inn in town, splurging on a private bath and some nice oils, but he has more important things to do, and Melissa needs the money more than he does. 

“Here. There should be more than enough for whatever Triss asks of you.” When he sees Niell about to refuse, he pushes the pouch harder in his hand. “Listen, this isn’t out of kindness. I… Melissa… This is a debt I have to pay for what she has just given me, alright?” 

“What has she given you?” Niell frowns, taking the money reluctantly. “This book? What does it contain?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Jaskier says as he packs his bag. “Listen, I need to borrow some books from the library, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to bring them back. I just… I know this is an issue but it’s important. It’s _really_ important.” 

Niell stares at him like he has grown a second head. In a way, Jaskier thinks it might be the same thing for him at this point. Niell saw Jaskier as a student in Oxenfurt, was a witness to Jaskier first screaming match with Valdo Marx (which was, unfortunately, not his last), and he had even been there the first year after Jaskier and Valdo had broken up, when Renfri had had to leave for the Path. This Jaskier he is seeing now must be quite strange to him. 

“Please,” Jaskier begs. “No one will need those books. Two books, not more, I promise. And I’ll do everything I can to bring them back. I swear.” 

“Hmph.” Niell crosses his arms, and looks at Jaskier critically before sighing deeply. “Alright. But you better take care of those books, boy. I want to see them back here in pristine shape when you will come to see Melissa again. Because you are coming back, hear me boy? I’m going to take Melissa to see that sorceress friend of yours, but you better come and talk with my girl again. There is a lot you and her have to talk about I think.” 

Jaskier chuckles softly and tucks the journal in his bag. “I will do my best, Niell.” 

“Good. Then off you go. Go get your books, and tell me which ones they are before you leave. You’re a good kid, Jaskier, don’t let whatever’s eating at you change that.” 

If he could, Jaskier would kiss that old man. He is younger than Jaskier truly is, but what does that truly change? He has silently been acting as a protector for the bard in the moments he spent in Oxenfurt, and for that Jaskier will forever be thankful. 

He runs to the back of the library, where the section of curses and dark magic is located, and it doesn’t take him long to find the works he had missed the previous winter. _Ameran Mortell, or the tales of a necromancer_ and _Curses and Phrasing_ are sitting on the last shelf, full of dust, and when Jaskier grabs them, he feels something sting at his fingers. There is something about those books, or maybe it’s only that he is slowly gaining all the pieces of the puzzle again. 

Pushing them in his bag, he walks quickly out of the library, leaving a paper with the names of the books for Niell when he doesn’t see the old man anywhere. He had been planning on going to see a few of his occasional colleagues at the music department, and maybe even to stop for a pint of beer with his old mentor, but now that he has seen the journal, he doesn’t have any wish to see anyone from his old life anymore. He only has to go to the offices of the music department and literature as well, and if there is anything from the Royal Court of Cintra, he will rush there immediately. Well, after informing Geralt, of course. 

The corridors of the music building are long and windy, half of them exposed to the harshness of the Redanian weather, but Jaskier walks through them briskly anyway. Students look at him as he passes them by, and he hears a few murmuring his name amongst themselves. It would make him smile on any other day, and before he would have stopped, chatted with them, but he can’t today. 

He is so distracted by thoughts of Pavetta dying, that poor girl, only having just celebrated her eighteenth birthday, when he collides with someone as he rounds a corner. It only sends him backward a few steps, but the other is thrown backwards, and when Jaskier hears the litany of insults, he is glad for it. 

“Damn it, watch where you’re going! Do you have any idea-“ Valdo Marx, greying moustache hanging over his lips and once sparkling green eyes slowly dulling with age, is looking at Jaskier in shock. “The gods be damned, is that you Jaskier? It’s been ages! You haven’t changed a bit.” 

Jaskier resists the urge to grin. It has indeed been years since he has seen Valdo from so close. They have seen each other briefly at bardic competition throughout the last twenty or so years, but Valdo hasn’t been seen at one in the last five years. Jaskier, however, has taken a great pleasure in still being the center of the stage. He looks youthful still, and looks matter as much as voice in those competitions. In a bard, people want to be entertained visually as well, and Jaskier is more than happy to provide. 

“I would say the same of you,” he replies, honey sweet as he moves forward, “but I hate lying. And you truly do look like shit, Valdo.” 

The other bard gasps loudly. “How dare you! At least I don’t have unseemly frequentations like that brutish witcher you are so enamoured of! Really, you should have stuck with me, at least you were with someone who could elevate you in society, instead of dragging you down.” 

Jaskier takes a few steps forward, quiet fury filling him. How dares this man insult Geralt? How dares he even insinuate that he is better than any witcher, let alone _Geralt_? 

“Listen to me well, you despicable asshole,” he snarls as he pushes the man against the nearest wall and a dagger finds its way in his hand. He has always had a knack for concealing weapons on himself; people are too distracted by his bright smile and his colourful clothing to pay attention to where his hands are. “Say one more thing about my witcher, and I will tear that tongue out of your mouth. You don’t compare to him. You are nothing when he is everything, you hear me? He is a better man than you will ever, or have ever, been.” 

“You are delusional, Jaskier,” Valdo rolls his eyes, but Jaskier can almost smell the fear coming from him, and it makes something dark and pleasant twist in his stomach. He _likes_ making Valdo afraid. “That witcher is a mutant, a freak, he isn’t-“ 

Jaskier doesn’t stab him. He gets very close, but rather, he twists his blade so that the pommel is first, and he pokes harshly at Valdo’s eye. The man screams in pain, but Jaskier holds him in place, his forearm against the other bard’s throat. 

“I won’t repeat myself,” he growls. “I assure you, I will not hesitate next time. Now, you are going to leave me and my friends alone. If I ever see you again, you better not even attempt to speak to me. Don’t underestimate me, piece of shit. I’m not in any mood to give you any pass. I’ve been nice for nearly thirty years, it’s high time you realize that you won’t get me back. I don’t deal with cheating, lying assholes who thinks they can insult the people I care about. Is that understood?” 

The tip of Jaskier’s dagger is caressing dangerously Valdo’s jaw, and the man nods, gulping. Jaskier smiles, almost warm, and he lets go of him. “Good,” he says and pats his cheek with the flat of his dagger. And then, for good measure, he knees Valdo in the groin. 

“I have been dreaming about doing that for _years_ ,” he tells the whimpering man as he lets him fall to the floor. “Thank you for such a great opportunity.”

Tucking his dagger back into his sleeve, Jaskier walks away again, not willing to lose any more time over the man. He has more urgent matter to attend to. The people around them whisper and part as he passes by, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care. Let them gossip, let them talk of the angry bard who attacked a professor of the Oxenfurt Academy of Music. Let it be known that no one will ever be allowed to talk badly of witchers, and especially of _his_ witcher. Geralt might be annoyed whenever Jaskier calls him that, but it doesn’t make it any less true. 

When he finally reaches the main office of the Music building, the whispers follow him still, but he steps through the office’s door unbothered. 

“Hi there,” he smiles at the man sitting at the desk and reading through a paper stack. He doesn’t know him, but that isn’t surprising. The Dean of the Music Academy cycles through students for that office every four or five months. Jaskier had never vied for the position, and he is quite glad for it. It must be dreadfully boring. 

“Wait a minute,” the student answers boredly, barely looking up. “Someone will take care of you as soon as they are available.” 

Jaskier hums and leans on the desk. “I don’t think I will wait.”

The man, more of a boy really, he can’t be older than nineteen, looks up with a frown. “It wasn’t exactly a question.” 

“Listen, darling,” Jaskier smiles benevolently. “You just need to help me out for a second or two, and I’ll get out of your hair. I just want to know if you received anything for Master Jaskier.” 

The clerk frowns and crosses his arms. “Why should I tell you if we did or not?” 

“First, because I am that same very Jaskier. Second, because if you don’t, I will jump over this desk and look myself, and I assure you, the Dean won’t be happy to find this office a mess when he comes to make his hourly round.” 

The man gulps and nods. “Lebioda have mercy, fine! I’ll find your letters, damn it!” 

Jaskier smiles pleasantly. “See, you can be reasonable when you want to! So, Toussaint?” 

The clerk gets up with a slight frown and nods. “I am from there, yes, monsieur…” 

Jaskier makes small talk while he looks through the piles of documents that are strewn throughout the office. He feels a bit bad for the clerk; after all, he did just threaten him without any valid reason to do so. But frankly, he can’t bring himself to care too much. He needs to know if he has received any letters from Cintra. He has only been gone from Oxenfurt for five, six months at most, but a lot could have happened since then… 

“Monsieur?” The clerk asks with some fear in his voice. “I’ve found your mail…”

In his hand, the man is holding three letters, two of them bearing the Cintran seal. Jaskier grabs them quickly and scans them quickly, afraid of what he will find inside. It’s the first time he is finding so many. Usually, there is one letter, not two. And the last letter smells faintly of lilac and gooseberries. _Yennefer._

What does the sorceress want with him? They have crossed paths again a few times while with Geralt, and he does enjoy her company, but he wonders what exactly she has to say that she decided to send a letter to Oxenfurt. She is the only person outside of Geralt who knew he was coming to Oxenfurt, so her timing isn’t surprising, but it certainly is curious. 

“Why, thank you!” Jaskier smiles again and the clerk steps back, almost afraid. “Have a lovely day now.” 

Jaskier leaves the Academy as calmly as he dares, and then he finds his way to the White Knight. The tavern is a popular one amongst students, and there are loud games being played, a few people playing rounds of Gwent as he settles down at a table, ordering a simple glass of wine. At least, he knows that they do serve this here. 

He opens the oldest letter first, from Cintra. The seal is unbroken, and it smells faintly of seawater and moss. Curious, but not yet too strange. He breaks the golden lion seal and reads over the letter. 

It starts off innocently enough. It’s Pavetta’s handwriting, and a smile graces his lips, soft and private. The princess writes about her daughter, describing Cirilla as she runs around the palace, charming everyone around her. She gives some brief informations about the rising tensions in the country, the fights she has had with her mother, the way she is handling her powers… All informations he cherishes, and he feels himself a bit relieved as he goes through this rather mundane missive. Maybe he is mistaken, maybe Melissa isn’t really an Oracle and there is nothing wrong in Cintra. 

_I am, dear friend,_ Pavetta writes in the second half of the letter, and he smiles fondly at the endearment, _rather concerned about my husband. Duny has grown distant in the latest months, spending hours muttering to himself and reading over missives. The strangest of it all? He has started ignoring even our daughter. Cirilla misses cruelly the father who played with her for hours in the garden, who read her stories in the evening. In truth, I had been rather expecting it._

Jaskier frowns. Pavetta and Duny had seemed rather distant when he had visited them at the beginning of the year, but nothing that had worried him more than anything. Couples grew distant over the years, especially royal ones, but Pavetta had seemed to genuinely love her husband. What changed? 

_He has been quite cold towards me for much longer, but I had hoped our little Cirilla might rekindle our flame together. But ever since Mother and Eist brought news of the Nilfgaardian Usurper King being destabilized by the Royal Court, he has been a fleeting presence in our lives. I do not recognize the man I fell in love with, and my heart breaks when I remember his promise to love me until the end of our days. It seems our days truly have come to an end._

_Still, he has offered to take Cirilla and I on a trip to the countryside, to our summer residence, so that we may have some privacy from Mother. She still doesn’t fully trust him, and I am starting to understand her. How I hate this feeling! Tell me, my dear bard, would you be able to come see us before our departure? Cirilla has been asking for you. She thinks that silly song of yours, the one you wrote for her? I am not quite sure how it goes, but she certainly does, and I do not doubt that by the end of the week I will know it perfectly as well._

Fuck. This can’t be happening, no, no. Pavetta, she is just a kid, he has to be able to avoid her death, to have it happen differently. He has to. 

_I hope that one day you will be able to bring Geralt with you as well. I wish he would know I don’t hate him for his mistake. Cirilla and him are bound by destiny, just like Duny and I were, but I am starting to realize it is less of a finality than I thought when I met my to-be husband. Perhaps you could convince him to come this summer? Mother has asked me to leave Cirilla with her for the summer, and I am thinking of agreeing. Do you think Geralt would feel less guilty if Duny and I weren’t here? I really do hope he will come to meet her._

She delves into some more thoughts about her mother after this, but Jaskier is frozen in fear. The summer is near, so near. If Pavetta left with Duny and Cirilla, then there is a high chance the girl is dead as well, or will die. Maybe this is why Melissa was placed on his path, to stop this from happening. After all, Cirilla can’t die. Not when she is tied to Geralt’s destiny. They have to save her.

He tears open the second letter after that, pushing the already read one in the journal. The writing is much less flowery here, the letters squarer and neater, but there is a hurried shape to it, and the message is short, barely filling half of the page, and Jaskier knows what it is before he can even read. He still forces himself to. 

_I have grave news. Princess Pavetta passed away in a shipwreck. So has Prince Consort Duny. Calanthe is now raising Ciri, but she is mourning her daughter. She would hate me for writing this, but you must come at once, and take Cirilla. We are in danger. War is brewing with Nilfgaard, and they have sent assassins for Cirilla. She needs to be protected. She is Cintra’s future. Please, bring Geralt of Rivia. He is her destiny._

Eist Turseach has signed the letter with his own personal seal, despite the wax seal having borne Calanthe’s. He is guessing that Eist applied Calanthe’s seal to make the missive arrive faster to Jaskier. It feels rather recent, maybe a month old at most, and Jaskier feels his eyes fill with tears. There is nothing he can do. He can’t save Pavetta anymore. 

She was only 18, he remembers, and this time the sob that escape him can’t be held back. Only 18, and full of joy. She had loved dancing and singing, and she had loved her daughter. She had loved her husband too, and her people and… She was so young. 

Jaskier was going to make anyone who had hurt her scream and beg for mercy. 

Yennefer’s letter stays untouched as he hears the door of the tavern open, and he looks up to see Geralt walking through the door. He waves at the witcher, and puts away the sorceress’ letter. He will have time read it later. 

“We are going to Cintra,” he announces before Geralt can say anything, and he extends Eist’s letter to him. “This isn’t a question.” 

Geralt skims through the letter, and Jaskier sees his eyes widening more and more. Good. Let him be horrified, let him feel regret and shame. 

“Alright,” the witcher nods. “We are going to Cintra.” 

He slides the letter back to Jaskier, and the bard gets back up. There is no time to waste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: yes i'm so sorry, Stregobor fucked, that pained me greatly. 
> 
> Second: from now on, there will be mild book/game spoilers that could (and probably will) impact the netflix show's future seasons. 
> 
> Third: I have the good news that I'm finally writing the sweetness for this fic :') 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed it! As always, don't hesitate to leave comments or kudos <3 They make my days, truly !


	10. A Lioness's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some discussions are important, and some are so sensitive that it pushes things in the right... or wrong? direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am riding on a wave of "life sucks but i have amazing friends" so you know. This chapter is brought to you by me being a massive dork and absolutely loving the hell out of all my friends. 
> 
> Special dedication to the TAKM server, thanks for being here <3 <3 <3 
> 
> ON A MORE STORY RELATED NOTE: There is some heavy content in this chapter including **SPOILER** Jaskier losing his voice, and slight tweaking of Book + Game canon to fit my own ideas. 
> 
> I have to warn that there is a high probability that some of the things included in this chapter regarding a certain character... will happen in some form in the next seasons of the Netflix Show. so... this is not a spoiler-free story anymore, sorry :'( 
> 
> Hope y'all will still enjoy it!! <3

The ride from Oxenfurt to Cintra takes them three weeks, and they press Roach and Hellebore, Jaskier’s newly acquired horse, until both animals can go no further a few days of those weeks. When the walls of the city, not nearly half as high as Novigrad’s but still high and imposing, appear in their sight, Jaskier thinks he could cry of relief. Summer is waning now, the evening starting early, and when they first see Cintra, it is alight with torches and flames that bring in the warmth. 

The weather here is more pleasant than in Redania, but Jaskier doesn’t take the time to enjoy it. There is no such thing as enjoying the weather when he knows that Cirilla could be in danger. Eist had mentioned that Duny had died in the shipwreck, but in the last three weeks, he has started to doubt that. The drawing Melissa had done showed a man climbing away from the wreck, and there had been something… sinister about that man. And the sword that had stand out from Pavetta’s stomach… He still feels sick when thinking back to it. 

“Now what,” Geralt grunts as they pass the gates of the city. “We can’t just show up at Calanthe’s court with no warning, in the night.” 

“You can’t, maybe,” Jaskier says as he slips from Hellebore’s saddle. “But I grew to be a friend of the royal family. Well, mostly of Pavetta and Eist. Calanthe doesn’t like me much, but I’m willing to blame that one on you.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, mimicking his movements, and they both start walking towards the castle at a hurried pace. “Have you thought that perhaps she simply didn’t like you for who you are?” 

“I will have you know I’m an absolute fucking delight,” Jaskier answers haughtily. “And she has no reason to have a grudge against me, if not for my association with a certain White Wolf who claimed her granddaughter as his reward, making her a Child Surprise.” 

Geralt groans. “You’re never going to let me live that one down, aren’t you?” 

“No,” Jaskier answers cheekily. “You should have stayed to talk to Pavetta, you know? She is… Well. She was a delight. She was always so full of life and…” 

He trails off, his heart tightening as he remembers her death again. She is gone. He will never hear her laughing again, she will never ask him to tell stories and to sing her favourite ballad. Never again will he play for Duny and her while some maid kept Cirilla, watching the couple dance and laugh together. His friend is gone, and he is suspecting her husband of having played a role in it. He wants to hate himself for it, but Pavetta herself had been doubting him. Jaskier will have to do research, but first, he has to get to Eist. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says earnestly next to him, his hand gently coming to rest on his shoulder. “I know she was your friend. I regret what I did that day, and I regret having never tried to come to see my child surprise before. I thought I was giving her a better life this way, but… It seems I was wrong.” 

“She had three wonderful years with her family,” Jaskier sighs. “There are many for whom this cannot be said. And Pavetta… She understood why you had left. She wanted to meet you, you know? She asked me to have you come each time I saw her, but well. Most of that we weren’t exactly in speaking terms anymore.” 

“I wouldn’t have accepted regardless,” Geralt says gently, as if to make things better, but it only makes Jaskier’s heart twinge again. “I am the man who would have stolen her daughter, how could I present myself in front of her?” 

“I told you before, she didn’t think of you this way. You helped her marry the man she loved, a man to whom she was tied to by law of surprise as well. She understood that things could happen in ways that no one was expecting.” 

“Did you…” Geralt looks a bit embarrassed as they walk to the castle, the streets still bustling with activity despite the waning sun. “Did you love her?” 

“Like my own sister,” Jaskier smiles a bit. “She was so young and— Wait. Do you think I was _in love_ with her?” 

Geralt’s silence is the answer he needs, and Jaskier can’t help himself; he laughs, loud and unexpected. It feels good to be laughing for the first time in weeks, to be releasing some of the tension that has been building and growing in his throat. Ever since he saw that first drawing of him as Julian that Melissa made, he has not been able to laugh, barely been able to sleep. Even Geralt has slept more than he has, and it’s an odd realization. 

Yennefer’s letter had been what had truly set everything into motion for him. He had read it the first time they had stopped after leaving Novigrad. The moon had been heavily covered by clouds, but there had been a blessed lack of rain, which had meant that Jaskier had managed to get a fire started, both for their dinner and for reading. Geralt had been hunting when he had taken out the sorceress’ letter. If he had been there, the witcher would have undeniably been able to smell the distinct scent of lilac and gooseberries that was a dead giveaway of its sender. 

In the letter, Yennefer had included notes about visions she had been having of Cintra aflame. She had been brief about them, and had simply ordered him to meet her at the Cintran court. She had, of course, no idea of when he would be there, but she had written as her parting note something he could not get out of his mind. 

_There are eyes looking for their owner, Jaskier, and someone is trying to contact me. I will be there when you will need me, do not be afraid of calling out for the wolves when the time comes._

He hates prophecies and he hates when things are so unclear. What is he supposed to do with that? Does Yennefer mean that sh is already in Cintra? But what reason would she have for that? Jaskier has some many questions, and so little time to ask them. 

“No,” Jaskier answers, drawing himself out of his own thought when Geralt grunts next to him. “I was not in love with Pavetta. My love is… reserved for someone else, and she was much too young for me. Too young to die, and certainly too young to be my lover. I mourn her as I would mourn my sister, but nothing else.” 

“I see.” Geralt is silent for a few minutes, and then he turns his head back to Jaskier. “Your love, who is it for?”

Jaskier’s heart twists slightly. “I don’t have the time to delve into that right now, Geralt. Let’s focus on getting Cirilla and getting out.”

Geralt looks to be about to ask more questions, but Jaskier sends him a look and they keep walking in silence until they reach the gates of Cintra’s palace. It is an imposing structure, and Jaskier wonders what mad person would attempt to attack it, but he doesn’t have to look far. Nilfgaard and Cintra have been at war for centuries, peace never lasting long between the two countries. 

Nilfgaard had never sent assassins before though, and especially not after the youngest of the Cintran Royal family. Ciri is not even four years old yet, and she has lost both of her parents, whether they died or something else took them. How could Nilfgaard be so cruel as to attempt to murder her? There is something wrong about this, and Jaskier has to figure it out before they leave with Ciri. 

“You are worried,” Geralt says as a guard leads them to the inner courtyard, another one going to announce their presence. 

“Of course I am,” Jaskier sighs. “She may be your Child Surprise, but I know Cirilla better than you do so far. She is barely a child, and she lost her parents. I’m worried about what Nilfgaard wants with her, and I’m worried that you have no idea what to do with a child like her.” 

“You’ll stay with me though,” Geralt asks with some panic in his voice. “To take care of her. You’ll stay with me, right?” 

“I can during the year but-“ 

“Come with us to Kaer Morhen during the winter.” Geralt’s voice is a rushed, desperate whisper. “You know that kid. I don’t! I have no idea what to do with a baby, and neither does my family! You have to come.” 

Jaskier’s heart beats madly at the idea, but he has to be cautious. “We’ll see when you have met with Calanthe. She might be opposed to you taking Cirilla. She has some sort of grudge, wonder why.” 

Geralt winces slightly at that, but he nods. “But if the Queen allows it. You’ll help me ?” 

“Of course,” Jaskier nods, and his heart is so close to bursting, “I’m your friend, Geralt.” 

The sigh of relief that comes from the witcher is loud enough to be heard through the entire courtyard, and Jaskier smiles a bit, despite his own brain trying to tell him to not get his hopes up. Geralt is simply asking for help, not for a relationship, and it is definitely not the right moment for this. 

They leave the reins of Roach and Hellebore to a servant that hurried out of the stables, and Geralt gives specifics instructions, as he always does. For the witcher’s pickiness, Jaskier extends a few coins to the poor boy, whose face lights up immediately and bows down before leaving with the two horses.

“I don’t understand why you insist on paying stablehands like this,” Geralt grumbles as they are led to the inside of the palace. “It’s their job to take care of the horses, and they are already getting paid for it.” 

“Sure, but it doesn’t hurt to give them a reminder of what they could get if they treat ours even nicer.”

Geralt sighs but doesn’t make any counterpoint, and they follow the guard in front of them in complete silence. Jaskier knows the castle, but he isn’t paying attention to where they are being led right now. He takes out Pavetta’s letter again, as he has a hundred of times over the last three weeks, and he reads it over again. 

Her doubts are written clear here, her fears and hopes too… She had suspected Duny of something, and Jaskier needs to figure out what. He has to gain access to the deceased couple’s rooms, so that he may investigate. He could probably ask Geralt for help, but he doesn’t quite know how to explain this to his friend. 

The witcher had already been surprised enough when Jaskier had told him he knew the Cintran Royal family well, that he had become friend with Pavetta and Eist. He had been curious too, asking questions about them. The bard had answered some of them, but others he had refused; sometimes it had been simply because he couldn’t handle thinking about those happier times when he watched the princess laughing as she bounced her daughter in her arms, and others because he did not have the answers, or simply could not speak them. 

The guard knocks on the door and Jaskier gets torn away from his thoughts. It’s a recurring thing happening today. Being in Cintra, being here with Geralt specifically, makes him nostalgic. It also makes him afraid. 

“What is it?” Calanthe opens the door, and while she isn’t in armour, she is still in breeches with a thick gambeson thrown over her chest. She must have come back from training, her hair drawn in a tight bun from which some unruly strands are escaping. “You.” 

“Your Highness,” Jaskier bows and gives Geralt a sharp blow in the stomach so that the witcher will do as well. “It’s an honour-“

"Not you, bard," Calanthe snaps at Jaskier, her eyes cold and angry as she looks at Geralt. "You." 

"Your Highness," Geralt starts, stops, doesn't quite seem to know what to do with himself. "I'm sorry for your loss-"

He doesn't have the time to say more, Calanthe's hand flying to hit his cheek harshly. Blood pearls from Geralt's lips as the queen's ring caught on it, but he does not move back. 

"Who gave you the right to come here," she berates him, and Jaskier sees Eist looking contrite behind her. Great, he hasn't told her about the letter he sent to Jaskier. 

"He is here because we were asked to come," Jaskier interferes, placing himself in front of Geralt. He is slightly taller than the Witcher, not enough to be really noticeable in positions other than this, but here it also means that Calanthe has to look up slightly to look at him in the eyes. Good. "You are not without knowing that Princess Pavetta and I had developed a mutual affection." 

He extends Pavetta's letter to Calanthe, who takes it with mistrust, but as she starts reading it, she walks away and back inside the study, her shoulders shaking. 

The Queen of Cintra looks tired, and with no crown in sight, she looks smaller than Jaskier has ever seen her. Despite her unusual attire, she is regal in ways that he has rarely seen on anyone else, even on her ancestors. Jaskier had met his fair share of kings and queens in his time as a witcher, and as well since he has become a well known bard, but none has ever equaled her. Even in the pain that he can read on her body as she reads the letter Pavetta had sent him, she is strong and beautiful. 

“This is her handwriting,” she says, her voice quivering as she looks at Jaskier. “She wrote to you about her trip, and she asked you to come here… But you are too late. And you already know this…” 

With a long towards Calanthe’s consort, Jaskier retrieves the second missive he received and extends to this. “His Highness the King Consort beckoned me and my companion as well. Princess Cirilla is in danger in the palace, we have been told.” 

Calanthe looks at the second letter, and she frowns as she reads it. She puts both letters on the table, and then turns to Eist, her eyes full of reproach as she stares at her husband. Jaskier takes advantage of this moment to tug Geralt within the room and to close the door behind the witcher. Here, there will be no guards to overhear what will be said, and even if any of the guards are paid off and say that Calanthe received Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier one evening, they won’t be able to say what was discussed. 

“I will not relent my granddaughter to a savage mutant who cursed my daughter,” Calanthe lashes out, and Geralt’s whole demeanour changes. His shoulders stiffen and his face falls from the sincerely sorrow of knowing Pavetta had died and only now meeting Calanthe again, to his angry blank mask.

“Claiming the law of surprise was not a curse,” Jaskier attempts to soothe. “And regardless, that is in the past. I understand that you do not want to leave Cirilla, but she will be safer with Geralt than here.” 

“Safer, with a vagrant?” Calanthe growls and steps forward, and so does Jaskier. “She has all the comforts and the safety she needs here, in her home.” 

“She has been attacked here,” Eist says gently, placing a hand on her shoulder and drawing her backwards gently. “Mousesack has recommended hiding her away until the attacks from Nilfgaard grow lesser…” 

“Fuck Nilfgaard, they’ll never take Cintra, and they’ll never take Cirilla from me!” Calanthe roars. “I am the Lioness of Cintra, I have won more battles than that fucker of new king has seen winters! I’ll kill him and put his head on a spike for all of that shithole kingdom to see! I will burn the very palace and-“ 

“Until then,” a new voice interjects and Jaskier turns around, surprised to see Yennefer and Mousesack entering from a small door on the side. The sorceress is the one speaking, and her long black dress is in key with the queen’s own black outfit, although Yennefer has a few stripes of white satin on her chest, drawing the eye to her form. “I highly suggest letting the witcher protect the young princess. Should some ill befall you, your highness, you will be glad to know your granddaughter and heir is safe.” 

“Who are you?” Calanthe and Eist say at once, and Jaskier sighs, stepping back. So this is what Yennefer meant when she said she would be there when he needed her. Butting in and being an unexpected ally, although by the look of annoyance Mousesack is sporting, an unwanted one as well. 

Jaskier moves to the side subtly, so that Geralt is between him and the druid, and he nods to the sorceress. 

“A pleasure to see you, Yennefer,” he murmurs, and she grins. “Your Highness, this is Yennefer of Vengerberg, an extremely powerful sorceress.” 

“And a general nuisance,” Mousesack groans underneath his breath, and when Eist arches an eyebrow, the druid sighs. “But she is the most powerful mage on the Continent, and she has pledged to protect the princess. Granted that her care is given to the one who claimed her through the law of surprise, Geralt of Rivia.” 

“Thank you for such a sweet introduction,” Yennefer rolls her eyes and turns to Calanthe, only briefly inclining her head. “A honour, your Majesty. I’m afraid I bear bad news for you and your kingdom.” 

Calanthe growls again, but Eist makes her turn to him gently, and Jaskier can see the love in his eyes as he looks at his queen. 

“Listen to them, Calanthe, please.” The Skelliger’s voice is low and meant for Calanthe’s ears only, but everyone else in the room can hear clearly. It somewhat makes Jaskier grow uncomfortable; he feels as if he is intruding on the couple. “They only want what’s best for Cirilla. Just listen to them, at least. I will side with whatever you decide, but please. Listen to what they have to say.” 

For a moment, Jaskier believes that the plea will go unanswered, but then Calanthe sighs, her angry facade collapsing as she sinks into a chair. She looks old then, despite being barely forty years old. The Banquet was, what four, five years ago? Since then, she has gained grey hair and harsh lines around her eyes and mouth, and Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion those have only increased since Pavetta’s passing. 

Jaskier is the first to start talking. “Your Highness, you read Pavetta’s letter. She was starting to doubt her husband, and she was starting to believe that her union to him wasn’t a happy one. In her letter, she mentioned that his behaviour had started truly changing ever since the Nilfgaardian Usurper was losing his hold on the kingdom. Pavetta was worried about Duny’s behaviour toward Ciri as well. Would it be possible that rather than killing your granddaughter, those men you intercepted in the young princess’ chambers were out to bring her with them?” 

“Duny died in that shipwreck,” Calanthe says, voice shaking. “Just like my darling Pavetta.” 

“I am truly sorry for you loss,” Jaskier answers her, and his own sorrow is reflected strongly enough that Geralt squeezes his shoulder. “I had a great affection for your daughter. I do believe however that Duny may have survived the … storm. And if I may, if it is indeed Duny who is trying to get back Cirilla, then he will know the Palace just as well as Pavetta did, and he knows you as well. He would never suspect you sending Cirilla away when everyone knows how much you resent Geralt for claiming the law of surprise.”

“What interests would Duny have in bringing Cirilla out of the castle?” Mousesack asks, coming to stand besides Eist. “He is a prince here, and Cirilla is the heir of Cintra’s Crown.” 

“That I do not yet know,” Jaskier answers with a sigh. “I just know Cirilla is in danger here, and she needs to be protected. There is no one better suited for that than Geralt.” 

“I have an army, knights, guards, a druid at my service,” Calanthe says, her eyes drilling holes into Jaskier’s skin. “What makes you think this witcher is better than all of them?” 

“It would be unexpected of you to let Geralt take Cirilla,” Yennefer answers smoothly, her purple eyes never leaving Calanthe’s dignified form. “And a witcher works unexpectedly. The fortress where the Wolves live is forgotten on nearly all maps. And as the bard pointed out, if it is Duny who is trying to get your granddaughter back, he will know your grudge against witchers.” 

Calanthe growls, nearly animalistic, and Geralt sighs next to Jaskier. 

“Listen.” He steps forward and crosses his arms. “Claiming the law of surprise back then is not one of my proudest moment. But I do owe that child a chance to live and train, to become a witcher in all but physiology. She is a child still for now, I’m aware, but I promise that I will care for her, and make sure she remains safe from whoever it is who wishes to harm her.” 

“I won’t let you take her away from me,” Calanthe says, her voice weakening as she looks away from Geralt, at her hands clutching her dress anxiously. She is but a shadow of herself, a pale imitation of the great queen. Losing her daughter certain shocked her.

“You don’t have a choice,” Yennefer sighs. “Nilgaard will soon be here, in Cintra. I cannot say if the palace will withstand the attack, but I can tell you that you do not want your granddaughter here in the palace when the city burns.” 

“Cintra will not fall,” Calanthe rages, her fist now hitting the table. “We are an army strong of-“ 

“The mages they have are stronger,” Yennefer sighs. “I might not be able to fight this fight with you. And you have refused yourself the assistance of mages and druids, other than my dear Mousesack over there. Your own refusal to accept that Chaos existed besides your daughter, and that non-humans could be just as intelligent as human is causing your downfall, Calanthe, queen of Cintra.” 

Calanthe attempts to interrupt, but Yennefer silences her with a look, and a rise in her tone. “I am not done. Your palace will burn, your streets will cry out and beg for their queen to save them. You will have a choice to make. Your people, or your family. Geralt of Rivia is offering you the solution to this dilemma: care for your people, save them from a death they do not deserve, and your granddaughter will be cared for by the witchers of the School of the Wolf. She will grow to be extraordinary, and I will be there to teach her how to handle her Chaos. She will no longer be a Lion Cub, she will be a Wolf pup. If you make the right decision, you will save her life. If you don’t, you condemn her.” 

Jaskier himself is moved by this speech, looking at Yennefer with wide eyes. She gives him a subtle wink, and he can’t help but smile. She is doing her best to be diplomatic and not cause an international search for Geralt once he has gotten his Child Surprise. 

“Give me a chance to righten my wrongs,” Geralt grunts out, and Jaskier can see how much those words have costed him. “Let me take Cirilla and protect her from whoever attempts to kill her or take her away. When she will be older and Cintra will no longer be at threat, I will bring her back, so that she may know you.”

Calanthe doesn’t answer for a few minutes, but she does scrutinize Geralt and then Yennefer multiple times, while everyone stands at a standstill. 

“What about you, bard,” she asks finally, looking at the blue eyed musician in front of her. “What do you gain from this?” 

“Gain? Nothing.” Jaskier sighs, his hands fiddling with the satchel where he had kept the letters and where, hidden between a doublet change and his own notebook filled with songs and doodles, Melissa’s journal rest. “I am merely looking after a dear friend’s child. No matter how much you disliked it, Paveta had true affection for me. If she had not wanted me to be present, I would not have come throughout the last few years. I know Cirilla too, albeit definitely less than you, your Highness. But I know which songs she likes best to sleep, which games she likes to play when she is bored. I know that she will grow to be like her mother, and even more so, like her grandmother. I don’t gain anything from this. I simply want to see the princess live long enough to become the queen of Cintra, if she so wishes, and I know that war is coming to Cintra. I have seen wars before, your Highness.” 

He starts to cough blood, and he knows the curse is furious with him, but he refuses to wield. He will say his piece, no matter what Stregobor did to him. Melissa gave him hope again, and he will live by that hope. His lungs might feel with blood, his eyes might close for days on end, he will survive this. He just has to hope his throat will not be clogged right away. 

“I have fought in wars.” More blood spills from his mouth, and Geralt frowns, turning to him and trying to ask what’s wrong, but Jaskier doesn’t allow him. “I have killed in wars, and I know how ugly they are. Palaces are no safer than battlefields when the streets of the city are burning, my Queen.” 

Jaskier’s knees give out, and he falls forward, his head swimming in an ocean of pain. Hands stop his head from slamming into the table, and he groans as the curse lashes out. It’s made worse by the fact that Mousesack is present in the room; Jaskier had fought against the druid once, and the druid had left him a nasty thigh wounds that a mage had had to heal before Jaskier had been allowed to fight again. If Jaskier could simply tell them all who he used to be, if he could break this damned curse… 

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls out to him, panic seeping into his voice. “What’s wrong?” 

He opens his mouth, but he can’t answer. His throat swells and he keens, pain so intense now that he cannot see anymore. Stars appear and fade in his eyes, and the last thing he feels is a cooling hand on his throat. 

He wakes up on a bed, his torso naked and a bandage around his throat and forehead. His fingers feel strange, and he groans as he tries to sit up, but a figure advance on him, and he sighs. 

“You are truly quite the interesting bard,” Yennefer says, crossing her arms. “You have a curse placed on you.” 

Jaskier groans, pain spiking through him. He pushes through it, touching his throat slowly. The sorceress looks at him for a few seconds, and he waits for her to speak again. He isn’t sure he has the energy to speak again, if he is honest with himself. Forcing the words earlier, no matter how much earlier it was, seems to have impacted his energy to speak. Fuck. 

“You can’t speak of it, I suppose,” the sorceress continues, walking closer and checking the bandage on his forehead. Her lilac eyes are focused and Jaskier tries to guess what it is underneath it all, what she is trying to see, but he can’t tell. “I tried removing it, and so did Mousesack, but there is something stronger at work there. It seems to be tied to your very being. I can’t even read your mind without it being all warbled.” 

Jaskier whimpers a bit at the idea that Yennefer has been rummaging through his memories, but she sighs and sits next to him. 

“Geralt is waiting outside, with Eist. Both of them are worried. You know how to make powerful friends, Jaskier of Lettenhove.” 

All the energy he has, he uses it to muster a smile and a jostle of her, to which she chuckles. 

“Yes, you are right to include me in those. Your curse… I couldn’t speak of it myself. I couldn’t tell Geralt about it. Eist, I could, but not Geralt. It has something to do with witchers, doesn’t it?” 

At her question, he twists in pain. Damn it. 

“Alright, I will not ask more. I’m sorry to be causing you more pain. Your sister, is she aware of your affliction? I suppose not, isn’t it? You aren’t as young as you seem, the wars you spoke off…” She trails off, and gentleness comes up on her face. “Rest up, Jaskier. I will tell Geralt that you have woken again.” 

She starts to stand up, but he grabs her wrist. He tries to speak, his mouth falling open, but no words come out. He tries again, and he can only whimper, and she turns with a frown. 

“You should be able to speak,” she says as she examines him again, her Chaos a gentle tickle as she spreads it through him. When she reaches his throat again, she gasps. “Oh.”

He tugs on her wrist again, knowing fully well that panic is written all over his face. 

“It’s… Jaskier, I don’t know how… Your voice, your throat… It’s like it was burnt from the inside. It feels charred to my Chaos, and it should work perfectly fine, because I know I healed you but… It’s charred.” 

This time, when he whimpers, there are tears in his eyes. He had been a witcher, and then he had been no one, and until now he had been a bard. It had been his voice that had taken him out of despair, his voice and music. What is he going to do now? 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Her voice is earnest and she moves back. “I’ll go see Geralt.” 

He nods, letting go of her wrist. Everything feels useless now. His voice had defined him for the last twenty years. He can’t be a bard anymore, if he doesn’t have a voice anymore. How is he even supposed to be himself again, if he cannot speak? What is the purpose of it all? 

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice is tentative as he steps inside the small room, and he takes most of the space easily. “Yennefer said you couldn’t speak anymore.” 

At Jaskier’s blank stare, the witcher reddens slightly. “Right. Sorry. How are you feeling? Fuck. You can’t even answer that, shit.” 

Geralt is panicking, and suddenly Jaskier feels better about this. Sure, he can’t talk, he can’t sing again, but he has Geralt’s friendship still. He takes the witcher’s hand gently and makes the man look at him. When the golden eyes turn to him, Jaskier indicates to him to come closer, and he wraps his arms around Geralt. 

It’s strange, to be hugging Geralt, when he is still wearing his armour. It’s bumpy, and it hurts a bit against his cheek, but it feels right, and he feels so happy like this. Tentative arms wrap themselves around him, and Jaskier realizes Geralt is hugging him back, no matter how awkwardly. He smiles, a secret he keeps to himself as his face is pressed against Geralt’s breastplate, and he enjoys the scent of metal, leather and sweat so typical of a witcher. If he were still Julian, he might detect hints of scents that were typically Geralt’s but he isn’t anymore. He is just Jaskier, Jaskier without a voice, and he will find another way. 

Geralt keeps him in his arms, and Jaskier feels himself falling asleep again, lulled by Geralt’s comforting presence. His heart would have hammered once, been so intensely excited at the very notion of Geralt holding him, but now, he loves Geralt quietly. He loves and loves, but the burning passion that would have consumed him is gone. He is simply happy to be held, and to feel Geralt’s affection this way. How great it is, to be loved by a witcher, even as a friend. 

He must have fallen back asleep without realizing, because he wakes up as the door opens again. Mousesack slips inside, hair greying at his temples, and Jaskier gulps, trying really hard not to throw the covers away and flee. The druid is looking at him intently, and he only stops walking when he is a meter or so away from the bed. 

“We have met before,” he says, and Jaskier feels fear prickle at his skin. “The banquet, the one where Pavetta and Duny were promised to each other. You were trying to catch up with Geralt. But beyond that… There is something familiar about your face.” 

His grey eyes are settled on Jaskier’s face, and nerves rise through the bard. Will he remember? If he does, what will happen? He already gets sick when people realize he is cursed, what worse fate could be brought upon him if he is recognized? Maybe he will lose his sight as well. 

“I must have met one of your ancestors,” Mousesack finally sighs. “Regardless. His Highness the King Consort asked me to come see if you were in any state to come meet the young princess. Queen Calanthe has decided that if the princess is willing to leave the palace with Geralt of Rivia and you, she will entrust the care of her granddaughter to you two.” 

Jaskier gasps, and the sound is loud in the now quiet room. At least, he muses as he slowly sits up again, he can still make noises. That is an improvement he isn’t about to forget. He swings his legs to the side carefully, gently moving his feet up and down to make sure that his ankles have not been hurt in the curse’s attack. 

Getting up isn’t half as much a struggle as he had feared, and he sighs of relief as he manages to step forward without falling or even staggering. Mousesack looks at him, clearly ready to intervene at any instant, but when Jaskier nods at him, he starts walking, only occasionally glancing backward. 

There is no guard outside of Jaskier’s small room, and barely any in every corridor they pass. The druid must notice his questioning glances, because he shrugs. 

“The war has taken most soldiers out to the battlefields. The Queen has judged that most guards within the palace weren’t needed, as long as they weren’t protecting specific families or at strategic posts. It has certainly been an adjustment for all of those in the palace.” 

Jaskier nods, taking the time to look around regardless. The castle is somber, despite the torches set against the stonewalls, and he can tell this was made to survive a siege. Still, he doesn’t have to see the future to know it won’t survive one now. The reserves are low, and despite all her flaws, Calanthe would never let her people be butchered at her gates if she could help save them. When Nilfgaard comes knocking at the capital’s door, the Queen will open the palace for nobles and peasants alike, and this will become a tomb. 

They have to get Cirilla out of here before that. 

Mousesack leads him to a door that Jaskier has seen many times before. There are flowers and lions’ head carved in the large wooden door, and it draws a smile to his lips, the memory it brings up as sweet as it is painful. Pavetta had been so excited when she had shown him for the first time. Her daughter had been born barely a month before, but the princess had already been bouncing with energy again. She had taken to Jaskier immediately, and she had insisted on introducing him to her newborn immediately. 

The first time he had seen Cirilla, she had been so small he had thought it impossible. He had seen babies before, had seen children, of course, but he had never seen them when they had been younger than six months. And yet, Cirilla had been there, sleeping in her crib, looking so fragile Jaskier had thought he would break her by simply breathing in the same room. 

“You can take her in your arms,” he can hear Pavetta say again, and almost feels her hand shaking his shoulder again. “She’s a heavy sleeper already. We’ve been told we are lucky for that!” 

“Jaskier?” Mousesack is staring at him, bushy eyebrows drawn together. “Everything alright? Are you in pain of any kind?” 

The bard shakes his head and, looking at the druid for authorization, puts his hand on the handle of the door. When he receives a nod, he pushes it open, and the room he enters is cradled in beautiful light. 

Geralt and Yennefer are standing shoulder to shoulder, watching towards the middle of the room while whispering amongst themselves. Usually Jaskier would say this is reason to be worried, but they seem quiet enough, and he tries to not strain to hear their conversation. 

In the middle of the room, Calanthe is crouching and playing with a toddler, whose blonde hair is so pale it appears white. Cirilla giggles as her grandmother catches her in her arms, and Jaskier’s heart tightens. He hates knowing that the separation between the two is inevitable. 

“Ah,” Calanthe sighs when she notices him. “You’re here.” She turns back to her granddaughter and smiles gently. “Cirilla, my dear, do you remember Jaskier?” 

At his name, Ciri perks up and turns towards Jaskier, who waves and crouches. 

“Jask!” The little girl shouts and runs into his arms, hugging him as tightly as her little body allows her. “You are hurt?” 

Ah, he had forgotten he was still wearing the bandages. He shakes his head and kisses her cheek with a smile, and she smiles back happily, hugging him again. 

“Are you here to sing?” She asks, seemingly content at being in his arms. “Grandma says we can’t have bards anymore but you are family so it’s okay!” 

Tears threaten to spill all over again, and he shakes his head again, humming softly. She frowns, her green eyes overshadowed by her long hair as she tries to make sense of his noises.

“You can’t sing?” She tilts her head and then shrugs. “It’s okay! I can sing for you!” 

She is so carefree, he realizes, so young and unburdened by the world around her. He wonders if she fully understands that her mother is gone and that she won’t come back. He prays that she doesn’t. 

“Ciri,” Calanthe calls out, and her granddaughter turns towards her, but she doesn’t step away from Jaskier much. “Come here, sweetheart.” 

“Can’t I stay with Jaskier, grandma?” She asks shyly. 

Pain flashes on Calanthe’s face, but the Queen is fast to pull herself together again. “Not now, Cirilla. First, you must meet Jaskier’s friends.” 

Ciri looks at Geralt and Yennefer with open curiosity, moving back to her grandmother and letting herself be lifted in the air. She is intelligent, Jaskier can see the way she examines the sorceress and the witcher, the green of her eyes shining brightly in the early afternoon light that bathes the room. He tries not to think about how much she will look like her mother as she grows, but he can’t help wondering if she will become like her as well. Kind-hearted, full of a joy and love that he had never seen matched, and powerful. More powerful than she let on, Jaskier knows this. 

“You knew my mom?” Ciri tilts her head, her eyes back on Geralt. 

“I…” The witcher throws a panicked look to Jaskier, and the bard shrugs. He can’t really help him, at the moment, after all. “Not really. I helped her once, only. But she… I made a promise to her. I promised I would take care of you if anything happened to her.” 

Jaskier hums a bit at that, finding himself slightly amused with the way Geralt is twisting what really went on during the banquet. Yennefer snorts, and Ciri turns her eyes towards her. The sorceress smiles softly, unbothered by the way Ciri stares. Jaskier remembers the Djinn, remembers the symbol Yennefer had drawn on her stomach, and he bites back a smile. Perhaps they will all come out unscathed. 

“Hello, little one. My name is Yennefer.” 

Ciri tilts her head and stares some more at the mage, before she reaches out, her small hand moving to touch Yennefer’s necklace, something that sticks to her neck and shines a soft blue color at all times. 

“This is a magical protection,” Yennefer explains. “It helps keep me safe, and it makes my enemies not being able to look for me.” 

Ciri looks down at that, and she tugs on her grandmother’s hand, asking to be let go of. With great reluctance, Calanthe does, but Ciri does not go far. The young girl sits down on the floor, staring at the woven carpet for a few minutes, and an uneasy silence reigns over the room. 

“Grandma,” she asks quietly. “Did mom have a pretty necklace like Lady Yennefer too?” 

Jaskier’s eyes fill with tears. He wants to turn away as Calanthe holds back a sob, but he can’t. He feels himself unable to look away, unable to leave. The queen shakes her head. 

“No, darling. Your mother… She didn’t have that. She had a lot of other things to protect her, but she didn’t have that kind of necklace.” 

“If she had one…” Ciri’s voice is so quiet Jaskier has to strain to hear her, but every word she says breaks his heart a little bit more. “Would she still be here?” 

The little girl still doesn’t look up, tugging on the carpet with a frown on her sunny face. She doesn’t seem to notice her grandmother turning away, stifling another sob. Jaskier, who has never had any great affection for her, still finds himself aching to comfort the queen of Cintra. No parents deserve to see their child die. 

It is Yennefer who answers, kneeling in front of Ciri and gently lifting the little girl’s chin with a finger. “Even if your mother had had a necklace like mine, it wouldn’t mean something wouldn’t have happened to her. We can take all the precautions in the world, but bad things can always happen.” 

“Why?” Ciri questions, looking at Yennefer’s eyes. “You have magic, why can’t you make the bad things stop?” 

Jaskier’s tears fall this time, and Geralt turns a startled head towards him. In an instant, the witcher is at his side, but no one else pays it any attention. Geralt turns him away gently, and Jaskier finds himself pressed against his chest, and he can’t say he minds it. He can hear Yennefer and Ciri talk gently in the background, but Geralt is holding him, and he can feel the guilt rolling off of the witcher. The Wolf probably blames himself on Jaskier being mute, especially since no one can manage to tell him that Jaskier is cursed, and the bard wants to soothe his worries, to kiss the brow of his witcher, but it is not possible. 

_I’m here,_ he wants to tell Geralt, _I’m here and I’m fine, this is not your fault. We have gone through worse before, I have gone through worse than losing my voice, my love. I’ve lost my soul, but sometimes when I stare at you, I think I’m finding it again. Thank you, thank you for doing all this for me, for her. I know you are worried, my wolf, but Ciri needs you more than I do. I will be fine, my love, as long as I have you by my side._

Of course, it is only when he cannot speak that he realizes the true depth of his feelings. He had known his feelings for Geralt were deep, had known it since that first stolen kiss in Blaviken, but until now, he had not really considered how deep. If he could, he would pull Geralt into another kiss right now, claim those lips that he thinks could be the secret to his undoing. But Geralt… He has changed since Blaviken. His bitterness is a thick shell that makes him blind to all the beautiful things in life. Geralt could never truly be the other half of Jaskier’s soul, that title will only ever belong to one person, but he would never allow himself to be the other half of Jaskier’s heart either. 

So Jaskier steps back, nodding and squeezing Geralt’s arm. The witcher stares at him for a few seconds, before turning back to Ciri. 

The little girl has her large green eyes settled on them, and so do Yennefer and Calanthe, although both women are looking vaguely amused, while the child is simply curious. She stands up slowly, and comes up to take Geralt’s hand. 

“You are here to take me with you?” There is no reproach in the girl’s voice, but more guilt builds up on Geralt’s body, his shoulders tense and his back straight. “It’s alright. Mom said you would come to help me one day.” 

Calanthe stiffens behind her granddaughter. “She did?” 

Ciri’s answers carries all the self-righteousness of a child who knows she is right. “Yes! Mom said that Jaskier would come with his friend. She said his friend was a tall wolf too! He doesn’t look much like a wolf, but I think mom was saying that because of Jaskier’s song.” 

Pushing back the blush on his cheeks, Jaskier smiles and ruffles Cirilla’s hair. She is so smart already. He hopes he will be lucky enough to watch her grow and become more of the wonderful woman she is bound to become. 

“You don’t have to go with them,” Calanthe says, her voice wavering. “You can stay here, darling, with me and-“ 

“It’s okay grandma.” Ciri turns to her grandmother and hugs her tightly. “I have to go with them. But I love you! I love you a whole lot, grandma.” 

Calanthe’s tears are falling now, and Mousesack hurries to get the Yennefer, Geralt and Jaskier out of the room. 

“It is cruel to separate them,” he sighs. “Could you not simply stay here, in Cintra, and protect her from here?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “It wouldn’t protect her half as well. Everyone would know she has an escort and there is much we don’t know about the palace. We need to bring her somewhere far away from the war, where she’ll be safe.” 

“And where will that be?” Mousesack enquires. “There aren’t many places that would take in Cintra’s princess at the moment.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “Can’t tell you, old friend. We’ll keep her safe though, I promise.”

Mousesack sighs and nods. “I’ll let you go back to your rooms. The princess won’t be ready to leave just yet, but since she has agreed to go with you, I doubt Calanthe will be much trouble now.” 

Jaskier sighs, and hopes the druid is right. In the meantime, he will have some research to do, on Duny and where he came from, and on Pavetta’s death. Despite the fact that the very idea of learning more about it makes his stomach churn, he owes it to his friend to know if Melissa’s drawing was the truth. 

It takes ten days for Calanthe to get Cirilla ready, and for most of those ten days, Jaskier can be found in the palace’s great library. He pulls books from their shelves carefully, and goes through records after records. Mousesack, after some help from Yennefer to understand Jaskier, manages to help him find a record of one of the few surviving members of the journey that claimed Pavetta’s life. 

Slowly, Jaskier patches the story together. Duny is no true name, and although he has no idea who Duny of Erlenwald did not exist until shortly before he rescued King Roegner and claimed the law of surprise. And right until the Banquet, he disappears from historical records as well. After a trick played on two distracted guards, he manages to sneak into Pavetta’s chambers, and he pushes away the shame that clings to his skin. He needs to understand better what Pavetta went through, at least for his own sake, if not for Ciri’s. 

He finds the deceased princess’ journals hidden in a secret compartment of her desk. There are four of them, and he pockets them, slipping back out of the room without being seen. He had thought himself discreet, but Geralt is waiting when he opens the door, the witcher looking at him intently. 

“What are you doing, Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice is not without reproach, but there is also curiosity. “Calanthe could have your head for this.” 

Jaskier shrugs, and grabs Geralt’s hand, tracing in his palm the letters of the words he want to say, but is forbidden to by his curse. They’ll have to work out a more efficient way of talking, but this is no time for it. 

“‘I need to know’?” Geralt repeats the world a bit dumbly before frowning. “You really think there is something more to this story. You’re obsessing over it, Jaskier.” 

The bard sighs, shaking his head, and he puts his hand over his own heart, taking Geralt’s own hand with it. He doesn’t know how else to convey how vital it is to him, how it is a thread that helps him deal with yet another loss in his life. Geralt sighs and, his other hand coming to rest on the back of Jaskier’s neck, pushes their foreheads together. 

“Alright. Be more careful though, for my sake if nothing else.” 

And how can Jaskier not melt at that, not simply nods and let the witcher leads him away? 

When Calanthe announces that Ciri is ready to leave with them, he is only halfway through Pavetta’s first journal, dating back to her thirteenth year. She hasn’t met Duny yet, but he sees the longing and yearning for an escape in the words of the teenage Princess. 

“Take care of her,” she says as Ciri nestles herself in Jaskier’s arms after he has settled on top of Hellebore. “If anything happens to her-“ 

“I won’t let anything happen to her,” Geralt swears, and he bows his head to Calanthe and Eist. “May Destiny watch over you.” 

“Over you as well, witcher,” Eist says, wrapping an arm around his wife. “May we cross paths again.” 

Jaskier bows his head, and he heads out of the castle with Geralt by his side. Yennefer left earlier that day, taking a portal and saying she would meet them when the time was right. It is past dusk now, and the dark envelopes them, hiding their faces from curious onlookers who could report to Nilfgaard and its assassins and other agents. 

They travel the whole night, and the day that follows. Ciri sleeps part of that time against Geralt, and Jaskier watches with a soft smile as the witcher figures out what to do with a child in his arms. 

“Where are we going?” Cirilla asks, when they finally set camp. She has been rather quiet until now, sometimes asking questions and sometimes humming songs that Jaskier remembers teaching her. Now though, she looks up at Geralt earnestly, eagerly waiting for an answer. 

“To Kaer Morhen,” the witcher answers. “The home of wolf witchers.” 

In his chest, Jaskier’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest as he tries to contain his excitement. He is going _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoopsie daisy, i have made things worse and better at the same time, ain't that a marvel?? 
> 
> Anyhoo, as always, don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos!! They really make me go !!!! all over the place. 0% exaggeration here. 
> 
> Next week preview: _ahhhhhh!!! baby ciri!!_


	11. White Wolf, Grey Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way to Kaer Morhen is rather smooth, but there is much more for them to discover, about each other and about the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain is breakdancing with the news of the lockdown again in France (which is where I live) but thankfully this chapter is fully ready and !! I hope you'll enjoy it. 
> 
> :D The sweetness is finally getting there (slowly).
> 
> still: tw for The Curse™ and death of minor characters, and also memories of child death

Pavetta’s journals are fascinating, but Jaskier can’t focus on them anymore. The travel from Cintra to Kaer Morhen is a month long, a torturously long month during which he cannot speak, cannot sing, cannot do anything but read and plucks at the lute’s strings. Cirilla, young and so energetic, sings alongside when he starts playing melodies she already knows, but the most surprising is when Geralt joins in. 

Naturally, the witcher doesn’t sing. He hums at most, although sometimes it can be only described as grunts. Still, Geralt tries, especially with Cirilla. Jaskier watches the witcher explaining to the girl what he is doing, where they are going. When Ciri complains, Geralt listens to her, and although he looks pained sometimes, he tries his best to accommodate her. He treats the little princess as his own daughter, and it makes Jaskier’s fondness for him grow with each passing minute. 

He is back to firmly denying himself the knowledge of his love for Geralt. If he doesn’t think about it, it cannot hurt him. And if he focuses more on what he might gain back in Kaer Morhen, there is no one else but him who can know. 

“Why can’t Jaskier speak anymore?” Ciri asks, three weeks into their journey. She has asked before, but Geralt has never known what to answer. 

This time is no different. Geralt clears his throat, looks at Jaskier, and lifts the girl in his arms with a deep sigh. Night has fallen, and she is wrapped into a thick blue wool blanket. She nestles herself comfortably against Geralt, looking quite at ease there, and she waits patiently. 

“I’ve told you before,” Geralt says, one of his hands absentmindedly smoothing her hair. “I don’t really know. He was talking, and then he got in a lot of pain, and he couldn’t speak anymore.” 

“And Mousesack really couldn’t do anything?” She pouts, her eyes looking at Geralt pleadingly. “I want to hear Jaskier sing again…” 

“So do I, cub,” Geralt admits softly, his eyes seeking Jaskier’s, and the bard’s heart stutters in his chest. “But Mousesack and Yennefer tried everything they could.” 

“Do you think his voice will come back?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. When she doesn’t look satisfied by his answer, he presses a kiss to her forehead. “I hope so, but I don’t know.”

Jaskier sighs softly to himself, and gets up from his spot by the fire, coming to sit next to Geralt and Ciri. The girl turns her head to him, looking a bit sheepish, but he smiles gently, caressing her cheek.

When he starts humming a song, it is one he hasn’t sang to her yet. He has been itching to sing it, to rearrange the lyrics so that she will sleep easier at night and will not ache alone for the family she left behind, the parents she lost. It is a song that he has never played for anyone, in truth. He _cannot_ sing it for anyone, besides himself. 

It is different from his brightly worded ballads, more somber than the sorrowful songs he has dedicated himself to writing on heartbreak. It is a song of longing, of being torn away from where one belongs. Jaskier hopes that she will never feel the ache that he has lived with for over seventy years, but he knows there will come a day where she will misses her home, where she will think of Cintra and cry. 

But for now, he hums, and she listens, quiet. Her eyes slowly close as she falls prey to sleep, and he stands back up when he is sure she won’t wake up. 

“Jaskier, wait.” Geralt’s hand is halfway to grabbing his elbow, and Jaskier stops his movements. “I… This song. You’ve never played it before.” 

The bard - but is he really much of a bard anymore? His voice was robbed from him, his very livelihood stolen, and he can feel his own sanity slipping away during the nights, when no one is there to entertain him away from his thoughts - chuckles. It is a sad, broken song, lingering in the air and bringing in bitterness and sorrow. Geralt flinches at the sound of it. 

“Sorry,” the witcher apologizes, “I shouldn’t-“ 

He interrupts himself as Jaskier’s lips come into contact with his forehead, soothing his worries. For once, Jaskier wants to feel brave again, wants to let himself be foolish and let himself hope, but there is already too much hope beating in his chest. Hope to be himself again, to feel his senses come back to himself… Hope to find Vesemir back. 

Rather than being foolishly hopeful, he mimics a gesture Geralt has done a few times, one that he knows will not be met with animosity; he presses his forehead against Geralt’s and closes his eyes, letting himself exist in his friend’s space for a few seconds too long. Geralt’s scent is intoxicating, sweet and leathery all at once, and he wants to soak into it, to let himself believe that he has a right to Geralt’s heart. 

When he finally comes back to his senses, he draws away with a sharp breath and almost steps into the fire, but Geralt stops him, wide eyed. Still, Jaskier doesn’t come back near him. He flees the witcher’s touch, tries to get himself under control as he slips into his bedroll. Geralt doesn’t follow him, burdened by the child stirring in his arms, and Jaskier stifles a sob. How he hates himself. 

They are at the entrance of the valley that leads to Kaer Morhen when Yennefer joins them again. When she does, she has ashes on her cheeks, sorrow is written in her eyes, and a wildness about her that pinches at Jaskier's heart. She collapses into Jaskier’s arms as she steps out of a portal, and he catches her, surprised as she buries her face into his neck. He would never have expected this of the sorceress, but here, he supposes he is the closest thing to a friend she has. 

“I did my best,” she whispers, her tears stinging his skin, laden with a Chaos that makes him burn. “I tried, I really did. I wanted to save them, for her, I wanted to make sure they were safe, and that she could see them again and-“ 

The sudden wave of understanding of what she means has him nearly falling down, but he stays strong, for Yennefer’s sake at the very least. He holds her, Geralt and Ciri watching them with surprised, and in Geralt’s case, with something that feels almost like jealousy. Yennefer stays hidden this way for a few minutes, the Chaos crackling around her making the whole clearing they are in smell like lilac and gooseberries. It’s sickeningly sweet, but Jaskier doesn’t try to stop her, doesn’t try to make her understand him. He holds her, and waits. 

After a few, long minutes of uneasy silence from Geralt and his Child Surprise, Yennefer straightens herself and steps away from Jaskier, dusting her dress. It doesn’t have much of an effect; what Jaskier could guess had been a deep blue is now grey, covered in so much ashes and soot, the dress is nearly indistinguishable from the havoc its wearer endured. 

“We have to get to your home as fast as she can,” Yennefer says to Geralt. There is no trace in her voice of the way she had just clung to Jaskier, of the sobs that had wrecked her body. “Nilfgaard knows Cirilla has been taken by someone, and it won’t be long until they realize that this someone is a witcher. And it will take even less time until they realize it was _you_ who took her away, Geralt.” 

“Why does Nilfgaard wants me?” Cirilla asks, unshaken by Yennefer’s dry tone and the change in her behaviour. “Did I do something bad?” 

The three adults look at each other in panic, and Geralt throws a look at Jaskier. The bard rolls his eyes, tapping his own throat lightly, and Geralt has a guilty expression for a second. With a gentle sigh, Yennefer crouches and looks at Ciri. 

“You did nothing wrong, sweetheart,” the sorceress says, her purple eyes locking onto green ones that try to bury into her soul. “You are very precious, that’s all. I promise to you, there is nothing wrong at all with you, quite the contrary. Nilfgaard… Thinks you have something really special, and their king thinks you should be with him.” 

“Is he going to take me away?” Ciri takes Geralt’s hand, clinging to him. All the bravery she has shown throughout the last few weeks is sinking away, slowly buried underneath the tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to leave Geralt and Jaskier, they are nice!” 

“We won’t let that happen, little cub,” Geralt soothes and lifts her in his arms. “I’m going to keep you safe, and Jaskier and Yennefer are going to help with that. My brothers might even help us. Would you like that, to meet my brothers?” 

“Do you think they will like me?” 

“Of course they will,” Yennefer smiles and walks closer. “How could they not?” 

Jaskier looks at the three of them, and he feels a pinch in his chest. He remembers Rinde, and the way Geralt and Yennefer had seemed to gravitate towards one another. The three of them look like a family, right now, and Jaskier’s heart tugs painfully in his chest. When will he learn to stop being so foolish? When will he stop and become more responsible? Seventy years he has been cursed, over two hundred years he has been alive, and still, he behaves like he is barely out of his teens. Loving and giving himself away so freely… 

“Jaskier, I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.” 

Yennefer pulls him out of his thoughts much later in the evening, and he realizes that Ciri is already asleep, curled up by the fire a few meters away from him. She probably tried to say goodnight to him, but he was too busy being sorry for himself to pay attention. He ignores the sharp spike of guilt in his stomach. 

He tilts his head, and she looks at him questioningly. He feels the prickle of her magic against his mind, but he closes himself to her. She frowns, but when he gives her a withered look, she backs down and sighs heavily. 

“Nilfgaard has a new emperor. His name is Emhyr von Emreis.” Her voice is quiet in the air as she tries not to disturb the sleeping girl. “You’ll be most interested in an other name he has, however.” 

The tale she weaves into the air, of Emhyr var Emreis and Duny, of the now Emperor of Nilfgaard having been cursed, only for it to be undone one fateful banquet evening, is as enchanting as it is horrifying. Jaskier finds himself wishing that he had never taken Geralt to that banquet, that he had let Duny die. Perhaps then Pavetta would still be alive. Maybe he would not be going back to his old home now, but Cirilla would still have her mother, and Pavetta’s laughter would still bounce off the walls of Cintra’s palace.

Yennefer’s eyes are intent on him again, and he sighs. Her story fits with what he has learnt so far, and Pavetta’s last letter makes more sense now. She had known, had suspected. He tries to not let himself think that he should have been there for her. There was nothing he could have done, despite what his thoughts are trying to convince him of.

“You couldn’t have saved her,” Yennefer says gently. “It was her destiny. She gave her life to protect her daughter’s. It is an honorable thing, and her memory will be honoured within our stories. No doubts that, once you regain your voice, you will write a song about her.” 

He smiles weakly, appreciating the confidence she has that he will be able to speak and sing again. 

“What happened to you?” Geralt asks a few minutes later, passing around a flask of whiskey that he had hidden in his pack. “You look…”

“Worse for the wear?” Yennefer replies dryly. “I was in Nilfgaard at first. Well. I went to see the emperor, see who it was. Did my own little research, since Jaskier was so convinced that it was more than just Cintran and Nilfgaardian rivalry at play. When I learnt enough though, I went back to Cintra, tried to warn Ciri’s family, to explain them that they had to leave…” 

She takes a long gulp of whiskey and winces. “Damn, this is shit. You don’t have anything better?” 

Geralt grunts. “You’re welcome to join in the journey’s funds, but I can’t take many contracts, and Jaskier can’t sing, so we make do with what we can. Keep talking now. What happened in Cintra?” 

She drinks again, and he can see the flask emptying as she gulps it down, drowning the memories of what happened in the cheap alcohol. “Cintra is gone. Burnt to a crisp. I fought, stood my ground with Mousesack, but Eist… Eist died, and Calanthe went mad with grief and… It was a mess. People yelling in the streets, soldiers butchering and raping and… It was madness. Mousesack tried to stay, tried to keep Calanthe and Eist’s bodies from being reached but I sent him away, through a portal back to Skellige. He was cursing me to hell and back last I saw him. I burnt the bodies, burnt everything that I could… I won’t let them use anything to find Ciri.” 

Jaskier reaches for her hand and squeezes it, a small delicate touch that has her sighing again. She holds his hand for a long time, and the three of them sit quietly around the campfire, none in the mood for much sleep. Only a few more days, and they’ll be safe.

Only a few more days, and Jaskier will know if his fate has been sealed away until the end of times.

In the morning, they start on the path to Kaer Morhen again, and Jaskier can feel his whole body shiver at the very idea of being within the Keep again. They aren’t too far, maybe two days, maybe less. The road there is still more dream than memory to Jaskier, but the mountains they see are familiars, and the bent trees make nostalgia rise through him in waves. His body and mind remember the way, despite Stregobor’s curse fighting them harshly. 

He keeps to himself the nausea he feels with each step. He doesn’t have to think much to know that it is an effect of nearing this particular space, claiming his former self again. Still, there is something that gives way with each moment he refuses to yield. Perhaps it is the love he has for Geralt, the tentative familial bond that is growing between Cirilla and him, or maybe even a combination of those and Yennefer’s friendship; regardless, the curse is angry with him, lashing out and biting against his skin, but it cannot break him anymore.

They travel by foot mostly now that Yennefer has joined them. The sorceress doesn’t talk much, but just as she had done so with Geralt, Cirilla charms her and makes her talk. The girl stays sitting on top of one of the horses, most often Roach so that Geralt can keep her close, and she talks about anything and everything. Now that she has the undivided attention of three adults, she seems to be flourishing even more than she was, and while she sometimes grow sad, her eyes falling down to the saddle she is holding onto, she is their ray of sunshine in the cooling weather. 

Kaer Morhen appears in sight the third morning, and Jaskier’s heart beats madly in his chest. Geralt must hear it, or at least notice his companion’s excitement, because he takes the bard apart for an instant, asking Yennefer to watch over Ciri and the horses. 

“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, his eyes looking into Jaskier’s, seeking an answer that will not come verbally. “Do you need to stop, take a break?” 

The bard shakes his head so violently the world spins for a few seconds, and then he clings onto Geralt’s hand. He moves it from where it is on his shoulder to over his heart, and he smiles. Tears are welling in his eyes, but he smiles regardless, because he can tell that Geralt is trying his best to take care of him, and he owes his friend this as well. 

The witcher sighs softly, but he smiles back. It’s a small thing, his lips barely stretching, but his eyes let through a softness that pleases Jaskier. 

“We will get to Kaer Morhen soon, and you will get to rest then, I promise. I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy but-“

Jaskier stops him with a hand on his mouth and nods back to their two companions, who are doing a poor job at pretending that they are not trying to hear what is being said between the two men. Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that, with Yennefer in her life, Ciri will become a fearsome woman, just like the sorceress, and just like the women of her family had been. 

Despite Geralt’s attempts at calming him, Jaskier remains nervous. His heart beats erratically, and the curse in his chest tries to suffocate him, but he holds onto Hellebore’s mane during his moments of weaknesses. It becomes hard enough for him to walk that Geralt orders him to get on his horse’s back, and Yennefer stays by the spotted black mare to keep an eye on him. Jaskier feels the tendrils of her Chaos reaching out to him, and he lets her pull away words from his mind. 

“Happy, soon, mountains, sister…” She frowns thoughtfully, her voice almost covered by Ciri’s incessant chatter as she questions Geralt about the Keep. “What are you trying to tell me, Jaskier?” 

He gives her a blank stare, and she rolls her eyes. “Alright, alright.” 

Chuckling, he shakes his head a bit, amused by her reaction. 

They walk closer to the Keep, and now the gates are in sight, and Jaskier’s breathing is too irregular, his vision getting blurred on the edges. It doesn’t stop him from noticing the poor state of the castle. This is no longer the bright, fearsome castle that had held a hundred Wolf witchers, without counting the trainees. This is a ruin left standing only by the will of a handful of men too stubborn to let it die. 

“Jaskier?” Ciri’s voice is panicked as she turns to him, and he startles. “Why are you crying? Are you sad?” 

His hands reach for his cheeks and he finds them wet. Is he sad? He doesn’t know. There is so much at the moment, a storm whirling inside and grasping at everything within its reach. It is an infinite maelstrom, pulling and throwing his emotions into its eye and not giving him the time to examine them. 

It is Yennefer who answers for him, smiling gently at the young princess. “I’m sure Jaskier is just happy to finally be here. It was a very long journey after all, and this means a lot for all of us to be here.” 

“You promise? It’s nothing bad?” Ciri is hesitant to believe, but Jaskier nods, extending to her his hand. When she takes it, he squeezes her small palm and she gives a small smile. 

Between them, Geralt watches with a worried expression, but the witcher doesn’t say anything. When Ciri lets go of Jaskier’s hand, he does briefly touch Jaskier’s knee as he moves in front of their small group. It’s only a light pressure, but it still warms Jaskier.

They pass the open gates, and Jaskier feels his gut being wrenched from his body as he realizes how _empty_ the whole place is. It used to be so full of life that it was always overwhelming to come back from the Path and suddenly be thrown back into this world of sound and life. Jaskier remembers being Julian and loving it, thriving in this environment. He remembers the aches that had come with training, remembers the first time he had come back after being sent on the Path. 

He remembers the Trials too. Bodies of children thrashing as yells filled the air, disdainful Elders who laughed when he asked where they were to be buried, the stench of death keeping him awake countless nights. Those were memories he wishes would stop haunting him. 

The ghosts of his past watch him as he dismounts Hellebore and follows Geralt to the stables. There is already a white stallion there, well kept and mane carefully untangled. Clearly, someone has taken care of him recently. 

The steps to the Keep aren’t steep, but his body is fighting against him, every movement making him take a long breath. His right hand grips the wall, nails painfully digging into the stones, but he refuses any help from Yennefer or Geralt. This is something he has to do for himself. He can take the pain, can handle the curse’s anger as it lashes out against him. If he doesn’t do it on his own however, he will always know that he failed at fighting what made his life miserable for nearly eighty years. 

“Here we are,” Geralt says as they stand in front of the large wooden doors. Jaskier resists the urge to touch them and cry. He doesn’t think the curse would like that. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, home of the witchers of the School of the Wolf.” 

“Lovely,” Yennefer comments dryly, but Geralt is already pushing them open, and both princess and sorceress follow him. 

Jaskier waits a second, two, three. He breathes deeply, his legs shaking, and when he steps over the threshold, it is not a simple shiver that his body gives. Blood pours from his nose as it breaks without any pressure, and he staggers forward, Geralt’s arm catching him the only thing stopping him from falling down onto the stone floor. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri all shouts at once, and he tries to smile, but he can tell it only worries them more.

“Geralt?” A voice says from farther within the Keep, and Jaskier’s heart isn’t simply beating fast anymore. It is leaping, bouncing around the room and towards the voice. “Is that you?” 

When he comes into view, Jaskier gasps, accidentally swallowing in some blood as he takes in Vesemir’s appearance. 

His twin soul has grown old, his body softer than the sharp edges it had once been. His hair is grey now, and the moustache he has growing over half his face isn’t the most flattering, but Jaskier doesn’t care. This is Vesemir, his friend, his everything, the one he has searched for the last year. The one he had thought had died many years before. 

Vesemir has also frozen in place, looking at their group with a mix of horror and hope. His eyes alternate between Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri, and then they settle on Jaskier, and they do not move again. 

They are so close to one another. Five meters, six at most, separate them, and Jaskier takes a step forward, Vesemir doing the same. They are both tentative, almost too afraid to hope, to dare believe that what they see is real.

But Jaskier’s heart is echoed in his chest, not a steady thrum but a beat faster than a butterfly’s wings’, too eager and afraid and yet so strong. Pain sears through him, but he feels his sight changing, his nose picking up on a hundred smells that nearly overwhelms him. He can hear Ciri’s hair brushing her cape as she moves it while watching them. 

“Julek,” Vesemir croaks, reaching out through the small distance that separates them, and engulfing him in a hug. “ _Julek_.”

“Ves,” Jaskier murmurs, his voice a harsh whisper as he slowly regains it. “Ves, Ves, Ves.” 

Their name fall from the other’s lips like a prayer as they cling to each other, tears falling freely, and they both sink to their knees. Jaskier buries his nose into Vesemir’s neck and breathes in the scent of leather and old books that he had always associated with his friend, despite his proficiency with a blade, and when he blinks his eyes open slightly, to try and bat away some tears, he see white strands of his own hair. 

He is a witcher again. He is Julian of Kaer Morhen again. 

“What the fuck?” A new voice asks from behind, from where his group of people are standing, but Jaskier doesn’t move. He can only cling to Vesemir, and sob. 

“Eskel,” Vesemir breathes into Jaskier’s ear, “do you remember him? Do you remember them all?” 

Jaskier - Julian? He isn’t sure anymore of who he is. He has been Jaskier for so long now, has believed that he would never get to be a witcher again for so long, that it feels impossible to really be Julian again. And now, he thinks that Jaskier may fit him better. Renfri gave him that name. 

“Vesemir, who the hell-“ 

“Julian,” Geralt’s voice in his back, and it breaks Jaskier’s heart a little bit, the hint of betrayal he feels in it. “This is Julian. Isn’t it?” 

Jaskier tears himself from Vesemir’s arms with difficulty, getting back up with his twin soul. He turns to Geralt slowly, watching the way the witcher - the _other_ White Wolf now, because Jaskier is a white wolf again - almost steps back. It hurts. It hurts even more when Ciri hides behind Yennefer’s leg, although she peeks over the side, looking at him curiously. 

“Geralt,” he moves towards him slightly, but Vesemir is holding onto him still, and his voice is so broken still, the curse lingering in his throat. “I-“ 

“Wait,” the new person, Eskel, interrupts. “You are Julian?” 

Jaskier nods, and Vesemir does as well. “Of course he is! He is my twin soul, my other half, the one we were all looking for. Thank you for bringing him back, Geralt.” 

“I didn’t.” Geralt’s voice is cold and Jaskier’s heart stutters. “I thought I was bringing back Jaskier, my… My friend and bard.”

“Jaskier?” Vesemir frowns. “No, this is Julian.” 

“I-“ 

“What the hell, you’ve been traveling with Julian this whole time?” Eskel turns to Geralt. “How could you not know? He looks just like Vesemir told us he did.” 

“He didn’t until a few minutes ago,” Geralt growls to his brother. “He looked like any normal fucking bard.” 

“Geralt, please-“ 

“You’ve been traveling with him this whole time,” Vesemir asks, and there is pain in his voice, and Jaskier can feel it beating into his heart as well. It tears a little hole in his heart too. “You could have brought him here, brought him back and you didn’t?” 

“I didn’t know!” Geralt defends himself. “How could I? He said nothing!” 

There is quiet suddenly and everyone turns to Jaskier, their eyes a heavy weight onto his still shaking body. The expectations that they are weighing on him, the betrayal and pain, the confusion and fear and anger and-

“Stop!” He yells, and he falls back to his knees, the pain a natural one for maybe the first time in years. “Stop, please. I beg of you.” 

Jaskier retreats into himself, holding onto that part of him that was happy and in love and hopeful a few hours before. He had started thinking of Ciri as part of his family, the one he imagined himself having with his friendships. He misses Renfri suddenly, misses his sister like she is a part of himself. 

Rough hands gently touch his shoulder and he knows those hands. He may not have felt them for over seventy years, but he knows them. Vesemir kneels on the floor in front of him and his hands cradle Jaskier’s gently. 

“I’m sorry, Julek, I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I’m sure you had a good reason to not say anything, to not come back.”

“I wanted to,” Jaskier cries out, then stops, looking at Vesemir first and then at Geralt. “I wanted to tell you, to explain to you that…that it wasn’t even the first time we met in Posada, but I couldn’t. Stregobor, that bastard, he had cursed me, and even when we killed him it didn’t free me. I tried to, I swear, I wanted to tell you so much, but I couldn’t. It nearly killed me each time I tried, tried to strangle me and eat away at my heart. I’m so sorry, Geralt, I wanted to tell you, I swear, I-“ 

“Blaviken.” Geralt’s eyes are wide and he is no longer looking betrayed, but rather horrified. “This is where we first met. You were with Renfri that day. You… I… How could you not tell me? Your name was Julian then.”

“You didn’t recognize me in Posada, and after the curse had latched onto that as well,” Jaskier sobs, pushing his face back into his hands. “I tried.”

“It’s okay,” Vesemir soothes, and hugs him. “It’s alright. You are home now, home and safe. We are together again, Julek. We are back together…” 

Jaskier nods, but the tears don’t stop. He doesn’t know why he is crying anymore, simply that he is crying, until everything else but his body and his heartbeat and the way everything is shifting back in place between him and Vesemir. He loses sight of everything, and he is somewhat aware of being lifted in someone’s arms at some point, but then he is back with Vesemir, and he clings to his twin soul as he cries himself to sleep. 

When he comes back to the waking world, there is a figure sitting next to the bed that he recognizes too well. Although he has no idea of how or when she arrived, Renfri is sitting on a chair, quietly inspecting one of her many daggers. Her eyes look the teensiest bit of red, almost like she has cried, but he has so rarely seen it happen that he cannot say for sure this is it. Maybe she is allergic to something? 

“Your heartbeat is so slow now,” she says without looking up. “I used to fall asleep listening to it in winter, that steady heartbeat of yours. It was a bit slower than usual humans, but I thought that it was only because you were in extremely good health. Never thought that you could be cursed, or that you were a witcher.” 

“I’m-“ 

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Jask- Actually, do you prefer Julian?” She looks up now, and her eyes are soft and gentle, something Jaskier knows is his only. 

“Jaskier, I think,” he admits quietly. They are alone in the room, yes, but this is a witchers’ Keep. Privacy can be hard to obtain when everyone has overdeveloped senses. “It’s… You gave it to me. You are family. My sister.” 

There are definitely tears in her eyes this time, and she lets go of her dagger, reaching for his hand. “I love you so much, Jaskier. You are my brother, you know that. Without you… I don’t think I would still be alive. I certainly wouldn’t be a witcher.” 

“Ren,” he clutches her hand. “What’s going on, are you, are you leaving me? You- Please, don’t-“ 

“Shit, no, never!” She scrambles up and comes to sit next to him on the bed, dragging him in her arms almost forcefully. “No, I’m finally getting all the pieces of the puzzle, I’m not letting go of you now. Vesemir let me keep watch while he went to check on a few things, but I’m not planning on leaving after he comes back either.” 

He could sob with relief at the very words, but his whole body feels empty of any water, and he can only clutch to her. She lets him, only retreating after a few minutes. She does press a gentle kiss to his forehead, and he smiles. 

“So, Yennefer filled me in to what she knew of the curse when I got there last night, but she didn’t know much, and none of us was feeling exactly up to waking you up to know. Want to tell me now, or should we wait until you can talk to everyone at once?”

“I will wait for the full story but… It was Stregobor, he was the one who took everything from me.” 

“I guessed as much,” she smiles sadly and pushes away a strand of white hair from his face. “It’s going to take some time to get used to, this new you, you know? White hair, gold eyes, slow heartbeat… It’s strange, a little bit. Though, it feels right too. Feels like you, my buttercup.” 

He hums. “It will take me some time as well. It’s been a long time since I last looked like this, and well. I didn’t have much time to really… Get used to it for more than what, a couple of decades? Before I was cursed by that bastard.” 

“Will you tell me more?” She asks this quietly, hesitating a bit. “About who you were? About who you are, I suppose.” 

“I promise, you will know everything.” He tugs on her hand and taps the bed next to himself. “Come, hold me.” 

She hums and gets on the bed next to him, her arm reaching around his shoulders and holding him carefully. “Why are you still so weak? If the curse is broken?”

“I think it’s more the insanity of the latest weeks rather than the curse,” he chuckles and leans his head on her shoulder. “How come you are here, though? This is the wolves’ Keep.” 

“I swear, if I step in that caravan of the Cats’ even once more, I will kill all of them,” she growls. “I saw Melissa, a few weeks back. Had to track her down after she left Oxenfurt, but rumours had gotten around the academy that you had a part to do in her departure. Many lovesick students were quite unhappy, by the way.” 

He snorts. “I’m sure they are. So, you saw Melissa, and then?” 

“She gave me one of her drawings.” Renfri uncurls herself from his side and reaches for a pocket hidden inside her thick sweater, that he knows to be reinforced with iron and silver. “Here, see for yourself.” 

The painting on the paper is similar to the ones Jaskier had kept hidden in his pack. He recognizes himself there, crying as he holds onto a shade that he guesses is Vesemir, and he sees his hair, half white, half brown. There is a strange halo around them, a pale red with delicate yellow veins that reach out to a white wolf, a small wolf pup, and a figure shrouded in purple. This is his reunion with Vesemir, he doesn’t have to think too much to know that. Touching the paper, he sighs. 

“I thought the white in your hair meant that you had finally gotten your shit together with Geralt,” Renfri says, and she gives him a pointed look. “But I suppose you haven’t?” 

“He is much more likely to hook up with Yennefer than to tell me he loves me,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You should have seen how betrayed he looked when I turned back into myself. It was… Gods, I feel like I could have driven a pike through his stomach and hurt him less.” 

“And that’s your proof that he doesn’t love you?” His sister’s voice is flat, and she groans loudly, her head hitting the bed’s headboard. “Jaskier, I can’t believe how much of an idiot you are! You finally get to be yourself, free of any and all curses, and yet you are still afraid of talking about your feelings? You are unbearable. You were a bard for the last twenty year, for Melitele’s sake! Isn’t talking about your feelings supposed to be your specialty or something?” 

“Or something,” he grumbles. “Come on, you still haven’t told me how you got here.” 

Her annoyance at his change of subject is clear, but he doesn’t have any intention of actually talking with her about his relationship to Geralt. He knows that they are on the edge of something more, knows that there are moments that, if he had dared, perhaps Geralt would have accepted to love him… But it was always too hard. Jaskier would always, however unwillingly, been lying to him. 

Even simply talking about who he had been in roundabout manner, the curse had lashed out and stripped him of his voice. What would have happened if he had tried to tell Geralt about who he was? Would it have put him to sleep or controlled his body until he was no longer himself, but simply a shell of pain and anger? 

“Alright,” Renfri says gently next to him, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Well, you know my friend Aiden? The only Cat witcher I can stand? Turns out he shacked up with one of the wolves, Lambert. That one is an asshole, I’ve got to say, but I can see what Aiden sees in him. It’s a bit disgusting how into each other they are. They can’t keep their hands off of each other. I thought I was going to snap and actually cut off their hands. But I thought to myself, _Come on, Ren, you’re doing this for Jask, he wouldn’t like it if you cut anyone’s hands off_. So I didn’t.” 

“I’m so proud of you, beastie,” he deadpans and she grins further. “Alright, so what, you asked Lambert to bring you here?” 

“Not… exactly,” she winces slightly, but there is no remorse on her face. “Aiden had told me he was spending his winter with Lambert, and we had met up right before I got to Melissa in Novigrad.” 

“How is she doing?” He interrupts, and she shoots him an irritated glance. “What, so you are allowed to derail the story and talk about cutting people’s hands, but I can’t ask about the woman who quite possibly was my biggest help in the last twenty years?” 

Renfri huffs and musses his hair, her fingers tugging lightly on the white strand. It has grown longer again with his transformation back to his witcher self, now caressing his shoulders, but he thinks he will cut it soon; he isn’t sure he is quite ready for the memories that come with long hair, anyway. He hadn’t been after the new trials, so why would it change now? 

“I hate when you are all reasonable and rational like this,” Renfri complains, and he jostles her shoulder. “Melissa is fine. She brought her whole family with her, and I think that sorceress of yours was most amused by that. I got to meet her, Triss Merigold. She’s smart, and quite the beauty. Now, not as much as that Yennefer… I do hope you’re wrong about her and your witcher, because I certainly wouldn’t mind being her bedwarmer.” 

Jaskier groans loudly, but there is a wide smile on his lips. The two giggles like children for a few seconds, both too caught up in the happiness of finding one another again and joking together again to care about the outside world. Jaskier’s head is resting on her shoulder again, and he has a leg half thrown over hers, when they quiet down again. 

“Anyway, as I was saying, after talking with Melissa, I knew I had to come and find you. It was likely you were going to be with your wolf this winter, since the whole Continent talked about Nilfgaard marching on Cintra. I’m sorry about your friends there, Jask. I know you enjoyed their company…” 

“It’s… Thank you. I shall miss Pavetta. But we rescued Ciri, her daughter, and that’s already something. Keep on with your story.” 

“Well, I wanted to find Aiden and ask him to bring me to the wolves’ hide out, but by the time I caught up, he was already with Lambert. And well. I don’t exactly… seek out wolf witchers, you know that. I had to come here for you, but no one said anything about befriending wolves.”

“Renfri. What did you do?” He is half afraid of knowing the answer, but he has to ask. 

“Well…” She drags on the last letter, and he knows that she did something he won’t approve of. “You see, I’m friend with Aiden, but we aren’t best friends or anything. If I asked him directly, I don’t know if he would have said yes. So I… may have… followed them? For a little while. I’m an excellent tracker! They didn’t even notice I was following them until we were already in Kaedwen.” 

“Renfri, for the love of the gods-“ 

“It all ended fine,” she hurries to reassure him. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise! I told Aiden and Lambert about my human brother who had gotten enamoured with the White Wolf and how I needed to find you, and Lambert reluctantly agreed to bring me along. He is a right bastard. I like him!” 

She sounds so cheerful when she says this, and Jaskier can’t help but chuckle. “You are a disaster, Ren.” 

“Half as much as you are,” she teases back and kisses his forehead. 

The door opens and Vesemir steps in, holding a plate of food. When he sees Jaskier awake, he smiles brightly, and all the worries fade from his eyes. 

“Hi, Julek.” He puts the plate on the table next to the bed, on the other side of where Renfri is curled up with Jaskier. “Oh, do you prefer Jaskier?” 

The Witcher-bard chuckles lightly. “I think you may be the only person I would hate to be called Jaskier by, Ves. I’ll always be your Julek, and you will always by my Ves.” 

The smile that takes up the older man features is so happy that Jaskier feels his heart burst with joy. He should look old like Vesemir, should have lines around his eyes and mouth, his hair should be streaked with gray at the very least, but he is left looking like he is stuck in his thirties. He wishes he had been allowed to grow old with Vesemir. 

“I’ll leave the two of you alone,” Renfri says, slowly standing up. “Thank you for allowing me some time with my brother.” 

“Stay,” Vesemir asks. “For Julian’s sake, if not for mine. If you are as important to him as it seems, I want to know you as well. If my twin soul loves you like a sister, then you are also mine, and welcome in our home.”

Renfri blushes slightly, and Jaskier can see it for what it is. His wild princess has never really been welcomed this way anywhere, and his heart aches for her. 

“Please,” he adds quietly. “I want you two to know each other.” 

She sighs and nods. “You’re lucky I like you quite so much.” 

“I know,” he whispers, and she looks at him fondly before turning to Vesemir. “So, twin souls? What’s that all about?” 

Vesemir chuckles and settles on the other side of Jaskier, and the three of them starts chatting. His two families are colliding here, and he is glad for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [finger guns] hell yeah family times
> 
> More sweetness! More sweetness! It is coming together! 
> 
> Preview of next week: Geralt you dumb himbo


	12. Hard-earned Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Himbo Geralt is a himbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's the last of this length... And I am changing to 13 instead of 14 chapters! Sorry folks, but the story demanded to be finished early :'( 
> 
> And, as promised last week: here comes Himbo Geralt :')

Geralt has never felt quite as uncomfortable in Kaer Morhen as he does now. They arrived here three days ago, and since then, he has been feeling off. He doesn’t have to wonder much about why that is, but he tries to ignore it. Each time he thinks about Jaskier - Julian ?- his heart twists painfully, and he wants to retreat to his room, where he can hide away from the world. 

He doesn’t have the luxury of doing this however; Ciri requires his attention all day long. Half of the time, Geralt thinks he will hurt her when she demands to be lifted in his arms, that she will start crying when he puts her down to sleep in her bed that he installed next to his own, but she doesn’t. She looks at everyone with big, curious eyes, and she has already adopted Eskel in her family, climbing all over him when Geralt had asked his brother to keep an eye on her for a few minutes. He had come back to Ciri giggling and Eskel smiling confusedly. 

Lambert arrived the evening before, and Geralt had already been tucked in bed with Cirilla when he had rode in with two Cat witchers. He had learned only in the morning of his brother’s arrival, but more than that, that one of the Cats is the woman Jaskier calls his sister. And even then, he had understood it only thanks to Yennefer, who had asked the other one, a man named Aiden, if it was Jaskier’s Pelargonia he was talking about. 

“Your bard tried to set me up with her,” Yennefer had shrugged, handing to Cirilla a pastry that she had made appear that morning, after loudly complaining with the lack of breakfast option. “And I figured that if he is a witcher himself, it wouldn’t be too much of an assumption that his sister is one as well. And Pelargonia isn’t exactly a common name either.” 

Geralt had hummed, and then turned back his gaze to Lambert and Aiden, who were smiling at each other, and Lambert’s hand had been casually resting on Aiden’s thigh. He is pretty sure that this is the most upsetting sight he has seen in all his life, and he had half a mind to cover Ciri’s eyes, but he hadn’t. Lambert had been known to smile, right? Somewhat. 

Now, it is the end of the afternoon, and he is watching Yennefer read to Ciri a small book, the girl’s eyes following the small animations that Yennefer creates with her magic, the awe on her face never fading. Geralt is a bit amazed at how easily Yennefer has taken to a motherly role, although so far Ciri has been nothing but a wonder. She has asked a few times about Jaskier, and about who Vesemir is and why he was so important to Jaskier, but she had settled down easily enough when he had told her he should ask the bard when they could see him. 

The scene of Vesemir and Jaskier’s reunion plays again in his mind, and he sees Jaskier’s hair, that shining brown that he admired on so many summer evenings turning to a ghostly white, the same as his own. And when Jaskier had turned around, his eyes had been gold. It had been like looking at a pale imitation of himself, a copy gone awfully wrong. A scar had run on his chin too, starting over his lip and running to the end of his face. There had still been Jaskier behind it, the same facial structure and the same built, although a bit bulkier now.

“Geralt.” Vesemir appears in his sight, and Geralt tries not to feel jealous. 

He hates himself for this feeling that rises through him. He’ll never know Jaskier the way Vesemir knows him, he will never get to understand what Jaskier went through. The memory of his faint childhood admiration, which had been mixed with the beginning of his understanding of his sexuality, comes back to him and blood rushes to his body. He had had a _crush_ on Jaskier, when he had been Julian. He feels ridiculous now, and he prays to the gods that both Vesemir and Jaskier have forgotten it. 

It hadn’t taken more than a few seconds after Jaskier had started crying uncontrollably before Geralt had understood that Vesemir and Julian had been more than twin souls. It had been rumoured of pairings like twin souls, that they became romantically involved the longest they were paired, and Vesemir and Julia had been paired for over two centuries now. Although, there had been an eighty years gap where they had believed the other completely out of reach… But Geralt had seen the tenderness and joy on Vesemir’s face, and the relief in Jaskier’s shoulders as he had curled in Vesemir’s arms, looking so small and weak suddenly. 

“Geralt, son, are you alright?” Vesemir crouches by him, a frown deeply set in his face. 

“Yes,” Geralt answers shortly, ignoring the painful tug of his heart when Vesemir calls him son. Before, he had always been happy when Vesemir called him this; now, it is only a painful reminder of what he cannot have. “What is it?” 

“Julian, well, my Julian and your Jaskier, wishes to speak with you and your brothers, as well as Yennefer and Cirilla. His sister, Pelargonia, is helping him get to the kitchen.” 

“The kitchen?” Geralt frowns, standing up. “Why?” 

Vesemir smiles fondly, rolling his eyes. “He has started complaining about the cold, if you can believe that. Hasn’t changed one bit since I last saw him.” 

Right. Geralt wishes he could say the same, but four days ago, he had been in love with Jaskier, a colourful bard who had loved to tease him, who he had half thought might have feelings for him as well. Now, he is in love with a white haired witcher who loves the man Geralt calls his father. 

Still, he follows Vesemir, lifting Cirilla in his arms when the girl asks for it. 

“You look sad,” the little girl says, and Vesemir turns a surprised eye to Geralt at that, scrutinizing him. “Why are you sad? Is it because of Ja-“ 

“I’m not sad, little cub,” he cuts in quickly, “simply… worried. For my friend. The way you are for him too.” 

Yennefer snorts slightly behind and he glares at her, but she only looks back unimpressed. 

He doesn’t have the heart to debate with her right now, not when he has to steel himself for the reunion with Jaskier. The way to the kitchen is longer than he remembers, but Ciri asks questions to Vesemir and Yennefer the whole time. She seems to know when Geralt does not want to speak, because she only hugs him without directing any questions towards him. 

When he walks in the kitchen, he has to stop walking and holds onto the wall with one hand, completely astounded. Yennefer gives him a questioning look, but he can only pass her Ciri, too astounded by the sight in front of him to trust himself to hold his child surprise. 

Sitting at the table, with a hand intertwined with this strange, new Jaskier, who now has the second wolf medallion that Geralt remembers having seen around Vesemir’s neck for years, is Renfri, the girl from Blaviken, the princess that Stregobor had wanted Geralt to kill. She has golden eyes now, and a few more scars, but she is essentially the same as she had been back then. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier smiles in relief as he sees him and then stops, guilt filling his eyes as he sees Geralt’s eyes trained on to Renfri. “I can explain, I promise, I-“ 

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Geralt says roughly, his voice raw and angry. He isn’t hurt, he tells himself, he _isn’t_. It would be easier to convince himself of this if he didn’t see Jaskier’s golden eyes lower to the table. 

“Don’t talk to him this way,” Renfri says cuttingly. “He couldn’t tell you anything because of his curse, and then I made him swear to not reveal who I was to anyone, not even you. If you want to be angry with anyone, be angry with me, witcher, but leave my brother alone.” 

“Your brother?” Geralt scoffs. “How did you even become a witcher? You weren’t one in Blaviken, and you were too old-“ 

“I found a way,” she grits out. “Now sit your ass down, or I’ll beat you until you do.” 

“Renfri,” Jaskier tugs on her hand, looking at her with a frown, at the same time as Yennefer chuckles.

The sorceress is sitting with Ciri in her lap and looking at Renfri with an interested light in her eyes, almost admirative. “I like her,” she tells to Jaskier, who smiles. 

It hurts to see that smile. It hurts because once, Geralt’s heart would have fluttered happily at the sight, and now he has to force himself to feel nothing. He glares back at Renfri and then sits next to Yennefer, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes. He can’t keep doing this to himself, doesn’t want to keep hoping for no reason. He’ll make himself a reason soon anyway. 

Still, seeing Jaskier lean against Vesemir when the older man sits down hurts too. 

“What’s going on?” Lambert walks in, the hair that is usually slicked back a bit of a mess and his clothes rumpled. Well, Geralt guesses that answer the question of where he and Aiden had disappeared earlier. 

“I wanted to talk to you three,” Jaskier says calmly. “And it will be easier to talk about what happened to me only once, rather than one time for everyone… After all, you three knew me when I was teaching here, well, I’m not actually sure about Geralt…?” 

Geralt gulps. So Jaskier remembers Eskel and Lambert but not him? “You did.” 

“He went by Eric back then,” Vesemir reminds Jaskier gently. “After the extra-trials, they asked if he wanted to keep the same name and he well… Long story made short, he went by Geralt.” 

Lambert coughs something that sounds oddly like “Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde” before snickering, Eskel grinning a bit as well as both his brothers and Aiden sit around the table.

“Oh.” Jaskier’s voice is featherlight, pain laced through it, and it makes Geralt looks up this time. “You were little Eric. You were the one they asked me to make the potions for…” 

“What?” Geralt frowns, dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?” 

Jaskier sighs deeply, and Renfri squeezes his hand. “I was a professor here. When I was asked to sit through the trials for the first time… It was hell. I won’t go into details, but I am, in more ways than one, quite glad that there are no longer any trials possible. But barely a few weeks after, the council of Elders summoned me, and asked me to prepare some potions for some experimental trials.” 

Geralt frowns. He is almost certain that Julian had not been here anymore when he had been put through the extra trials. So why is Jaskier mentioning them? 

“I refused. I had been through some of those extra trials myself a decade or so before then, and I was… Well I was the only person who had lived through one, and that was most likely due to my bond to Vesemir.” He lets go of Renfri’s hand, twisting his fingers anxiously. It’s something that Geralt has seen him do a thousand times, something that he had soothed before with a glass of wine or a distracting question. Now, he can only watch as Vesemir squeezes Jaskier’s arm. “They wanted to put a few of my students, but namely… They wanted to put you, Geralt, through it. They thought… They thought you were the perfect candidate for it. I refused to do it, I couldn’t take hurting another child and. They asked me to choose between Kaer Morhen, my life as a witcher, my whole reason of living, and… potentially your life. I chose to protect you, though I see now that it was only cowardice and I should have stayed and-“ 

“Jask,” Renfri says gently. “The past is the past. You can’t change it, alright? Just… Tell us your story, my buttercup.” 

Her _buttercup_? Is Jaskier dating Renfri too? Is Geralt the only one he doesn’t want to be with? 

The small smile he directs to Renfri leaves a bitter taste in Geralt’s mouth, and he turns his eyes away again. “What then?” 

“Right,” Jaskier sighs. “Anyway, I fought with Roland, left behind my sword and lost my medallion… And some time after, I got cursed by Stregobor. He said I wouldn’t ever be a witcher again until I found my other half, and well. I couldn’t feel Vesemir anymore, and I couldn’t remember the way here. I couldn’t even speak about anything that related to my life as Julian. I couldn’t say Vesemir’s name, or even Eskel or Lambert. My only guess as to why I could say yours, Geralt, was that the curse couldn’t detect that you were someone I had knew. It was tied to who I was, to my very essence, and I couldn’t even think of saying something with the intent of working my way around the curse.” 

“Is that why, when we were in Blaviken, you said you would tell me after you killed Stregobor? Why you passed out?” Geralt asks, remembering the kiss Julian had stolen from his lips back then, the one he had wanted to chase after, but had decided not to. After all, back then, he had thought he would see Julian after Stregobor died… How childish of him. Clearly, it had been pity that had made Jaskier kiss him. 

“Yes,” Jaskier answers gently. “I really wanted to tell you, you deserved to know, but I couldn’t, and-“ 

“I dragged him away from Blaviken before people could stone us,” Renfri says roughly, her voice filled with an emotion that Geralt isn’t sure he recognizes. Is this some sort of apology, for leaving him behind, for allowing people to call him a butcher, when he had only defended them? 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come looking for you after that,” Jaskier apologizes, tries to reach out and take a hold of Geralt’s hand, but the other white haired witcher moves it out of the way. “I’m really sorry Geralt.” 

“It’s fine.” 

There is a silence that follows his words. A small hand touches his arm, and he turns to see Ciri, looking at him with great, shining green eyes full of tears. She pushes at his arms until he allows her onto his lap and then clings to him, her face pressed in his neck. Instinctively, he wraps his arms around her and hugs her back. It feels good, to allow himself this moment of kindness, a gentle touch from a child who isn’t afraid of him. 

“It isn’t,” Jaskier says gently, but he doesn’t press on the issue. “Before that, I had tried meeting up with witchers, but they always… Well. They always thought me insane. I can’t blame them. Then I met Renfri, we hit it off, and we went to hunt Stregobor together. Blaviken happened, and then… I left with Renfri, and we travelled together for a couple of years, before she decided to try her luck and see if the Cats would take her in.” 

He nudges his sister, and Geralt’s eyes turn to Renfri, who shrugs. “Aiden knows this, so I don’t see why the rest of you shouldn’t. I only survived the trials because I have a natural resistance to magic. The Elders of the Cat School didn’t really want to put me through it, but I insisted.” 

“You mean you threatened them until they accepted,” Aiden interrupts with a chuckle, seemingly unfazed by the story being told. “I quite remember that one of them got out of that meeting with a rather large cut.” 

“If they had said yes immediately, it wouldn’t have happened,” Renfri answers with a pout. “I was an excellent candidate! And I am an excellent witcher.” 

Aiden hums, amused, but he doesn’t add on anything else. 

“Anyway,” she huffs as she starts again. “They put me through some training, I wiped the floor with all of them, and then I was sent on the Path!” 

“You forget to mention the year of terrors that followed your trials,” Jaskier smiles tenderly and presses a kiss on her palm. “But you certainly were braver than I was when I passed the trials. So proud of you, little beastie.” 

“Alright, don’t get all cheesy on me,” Renfri shoves him slightly, but she smiles with a pleased blush. “We were on your story anyway.” 

“Would you allow me to examine you?” Yennefer cuts in before Jaskier starts again, her lilac eyes watching Renfri attentively. “You must be quite impressive if you are resistant to magic.” 

Renfri smiles turns to a cocky smirk and Geralt sees Yennefer giving her a grin, and he almost lets his head fall onto the table. Were it not for the child in his arms who is observing the scene silently, he would. 

“Sure,” Renfri’s cocksure voice answers, and there is an amused snort from Jaskier, quickly followed by an “ow!” 

Looking up, Geralt finds Jaskier and Renfri locked in an internal battle, and he has no doubt believing those two are siblings, by choice if not by trials and pain the way Geralt is bonded to Eskel and Lambert. They are sweet, he thinks, before stopping himself in his thoughts. Are they siblings, or are they dating? He has no idea anymore, and trying to figure it out is giving him a headache.

“I ended up enrolling in Oxenfurt after a… disastrous life decision,” he glares at Renfri when she grins, and Geralt knows there is a story there, but he can also tell Jaskier won’t give it right now. “I fell in love with music and thought I could move on from my life as a witcher… And then I met with Geralt and, well. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of being with him.” 

There is a layer to his words, a heaviness to them. Geralt doesn’t quite understand it. What couldn’t Jaskier pass up on? A possible chance of seeing Vesemir again, a way to get back to who he used to be? 

“Are you all better now?” Ciri asks, concerned. She is perched on Geralt’s lap, her feet digging into his thighs almost painfully as she leans over the table to look at Jaskier. “Can you sing again?” 

“I think so, little cub,” Jaskier smiles gently, extending a hand to cup her cheek and push away some of her hair from her face. “How about you, have you been nice with Yennefer and Geralt while I was asleep?” 

“She’s been wonderful,” Geralt answers gruffly. 

“Very sweet,” Yennefer agrees with a smile. “I think she probably wants to spend some time with you though now, and now that we know your story, we can let you go rest up again.” 

“Oh, I’m good to play with my little darling,” Jaskier smiles and, standing up, lifts Ciri in his arms. “If you don’t mind, Geralt?” 

“Go ahead,” the witcher grunts out and stands as well. “I’m going to go train.” 

“Wait, Geralt!” 

But Geralt is already halfway out of the kitchen, and he doesn’t turn back. It is not fleeing, he tells himself. Strategic retreat is not fleeing. It is only that he has to build back up those walls that Jaskier had so easily torn down, and he can’t let himself be softened by the sight of his bard and his child surprise playing together.

He finds refuge in his room, reading over an old manuscripts on potions. It’s one of his oldest books, and he finds old scribbles from his childhood there, things he remember writing down as he sat through his lectures, bored out of his mind. 

Geralt had never been the most studious of his year. He knows his potions well enough, knows how to brew them and when to do so, but he is well aware that Lambert has always been much more efficient at it than him. He can see why in his notes now.

_“Ghoul blood stinks.” “Ask Elrich.” “Twin souls? Eskel?”_

There are a hundreds more notes scattered throughout the pages, and he finds himself chuckling at some of them. He tries to ignore the way seeing notes written in other handwritings than his twists his heart. There is a reason he doesn’t look through those often; his books are all half-gathered collections of the friends he has lost, first in the Trials, and then on the Path, and most importantly, in the Sacking. He had had friends here, a family, bigger than what it is now. 

Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir are more important too him than he would ever admit, but sometimes he can’t help but wonder what would have happened if the Sacking hadn’t happened. He probably would never have been able to bring back Jaskier here, and or even Yennefer. Mages, outside of those associated with the School, were not welcomed by the Elders, and Geralt had believed Jaskier to be a human bard, and humans were even less welcome than mages. 

Without the Sacking, Vesemir and Jaskier would never have been reunited either, Geralt realizes. Or, if they had been, Jaskier might very well have been punished for what he had done in the past. The Elders of Kaer Morhen had not been known for their kindness and forgiveness. Geralt has enough scars from his childhood’s misbehaviours to be certain of that. 

There is a knock on the door, not one he recognizes, and when he looks up, the door is opening up, and Renfri stands in the entryway, her arms crossed. 

“We need to talk.” Her voice is calm, but he hears the thunder under it, the way she is waiting for him to fight back and to argue. “You can’t treat him this way.” 

“What?” Geralt is a bit dumbfounded, and he doesn’t have the time to tell her to fuck off before she has slipped into his room and closed the door behind herself. “What are you talking about?” 

“Jaskier,” she answers as she rolls her eyes. “It’s not like we have a lot to discuss otherwise.” 

She does have a point there. He had never really gotten around talking with her in Blaviken, and what he knows of her, he knows it through Jaskier. The bard had always seemed rather vague about his sister, and now Geralt understands why. It was someone Geralt had been asked to kill, after all. 

“Right.” 

The former princess of Creyden doesn’t seem to care much about decorum; she all but throws herself on Geralt’s bed, resting her head on her hands as she leans against the pillows. Her golden eyes follow his movements, and Geralt sighs, putting down the book. 

“You know, for someone who is supposed to be the greatest witcher alive, you certainly seem more like the greatest grump alive.” 

Her jab doesn’t quite irk him, but he frowns. He isn’t a _grump_. 

“I think you’re mistaking me with Lambert,” he deadpans, and she snorts. “My brother is much more of a grump than I am.” 

She laughs, light and yet unbearably loud. She isn’t like any witcher he has met before. She had grown outside of a Keep, had developed her skills and her mentality on her own, and he suspects that her morals grew from meeting Jaskier. He remembers the girl who had fought against Stregobor in Blaviken, the way she had almost scared him with how bloodthirsty she was. Humans were rarely like this, so openly full of disdain for the life of another. They at least pretended to care, to not want to murder. 

Renfri, brown eyes filled with pain and anger, had held her sword in one hand, her dagger in another, and she had attacked mercilessly. He remembers seeing her dragging Julian away from Blaviken too, the way she had half-carried the sobbing, the broken shell of a man her friend had been. 

“No, your brother sure is an asshole, but he is less of a grump. I don’t know what he was like before, but since he is getting some on the regular, I’m guessing he is feeling much happier.” She laughs when Geralt pulls a face. “Oh don’t be such a prude! It’s not like I don’t know you want to bed my brother.” 

“I- What? No I don’t!” Geralt lies, and the look she gives him is clear on her thoughts. “I don’t want that! And besides, even if I did _\- which I don’t -_ , I would never try and get between Jaskier and the person he loves.” 

“That would be rather difficult for you to do,” she snorts. 

“Besides, even if I did want something with Jaskier _\- which I don’t!-_ , I couldn’t ever forgive myself for harming his relationships. I’m his friend first, and I can’t stand the idea of hurting my friend. I think I’ve done that enough-“ 

“Yes, you certainly have,” she hums in agreement and then levels him with a flat glare. “If I have to console my brother one more evening because you were too daft and hurtful, I will end you.” 

Somehow, he has no trouble believing her. Maybe it is due to the way her eyes never break contact with his, or to her absolute straight face. Or maybe, he simply remembers the few times Jaskier had mentioned his sister, and the way he had mentioned her ruthlessness. 

“I believe you wouldn’t be the only one to want my death if I tried anything.” 

She hums with a small smile and nods. “Indeed. He has wormed his way into everyone’s heart, hasn’t he? My little beauty.” 

“Why do you call him that?” He can’t help but ask. “’Your’ buttercup, ‘your’ beauty? Is there… Is there something more than siblinghood between you two?”

Her laughter is so loud again, but this time there is no lightness in it. The sound is roaring, a wall of fire that crashes around him and burn his skin. She unsettles him in a way no one ever has before. Monsters, beasts, sorceresses, mages… He gets them. He understands them much better than he wishes to someday. But Renfri? He doesn’t understand her. When he can usually understand a person by the way they address him, Renfri doesn’t treat him in a way that he has ever been before. 

Jaskier had been new too, confrontation and teasing and lilting laughter that rose above the trees. Yennefer too, with her roaring power and her hunger for the world. Then there is Ciri, who treats him almost like a father, who doesn’t see the monster most people see. 

But Renfri? She is a mystery. He can’t quite understand why that is. There is something under it all, something that doesn’t tie in with him, but it changes her very core. Begrudgingly, he has to admit that he admires her. She is made of fallen stars and burning steel, a legend who burnt too bright before her time. He wonders what would have been, had he met her alone. 

“Between me and Jaskier?” The very thought makes her hiccup with laughter again, and she looks young then, wiping tears from her eyes. “Gods, no, never. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly interested in men.” 

He gives her a side look, and she giggles again. 

“Please, do mention this to Jaskier though, when you’ve finally taken that stick out of your ass. I’m sure he will love it, the very idea of being with me romantically… It will send him in hysterics.” 

“Did you come here only to insult me or should I expect something else from you?” 

“Such a sensitive witcher,” she teases. “I told you, I’m here to talk about Jaskier.” 

“What about him?” Geralt’s shoulders are tensing up again and any respite he had gotten from reading the book and reminiscing about the past is gone. “Are you here on his behalf?” 

“What? No. He would probably be very cross with me if he knew I came here to talk with you about him, in fact.” She rolls her eyes. “Dumb boy.” 

He squints ever so slightly. “Why then?” 

“Because I love him, of course. He’s my brother, dimwit. If it weren’t for him, I would probably be dead in a ditch somewhere, or even better, having been dissected by Stregobor. Beyond that, he gave me a real life, a chance at living as who I wanted to be. And what did I give him in return? A name, only that. I want him to have a chance at being whoever he wants to be, not whoever people expect him to be. And if I have to talk to your stupid mug and beat it into you that you aren’t treating him properly, so be it.” 

“How am I not treating him properly?” He crosses his arms, looking at her defiantly. She is much younger than him, yet he is the one left feeling like a petulant child. “I’m giving him the space he needs after finding back his soulmate and his sister, and I’m keeping my distance as to not do anything reckless that could endanger his and Vesemir’s relationship.” 

“How would you endanger it? They are _twin souls_ ,” she reminds him, staring blankly at him. “They can feel what the other feel.” 

“I’m aware of what it means,” he snaps. “I just. They are more than that.” 

It’s her turn to squint. “Geralt of Rivia, what in the fucking gods’ name are you talking about?” 

The white haired witcher growls, stands up. Without meaning to, he starts pacing. He is trapped under her gaze, unable to leave his own room. He hasn’t tried, sure, but he has no doubt that, were he to even try, a dagger would find its way to some part of his body. He would quite like to remain whole this winter. 

“It’s, you know,” he doesn’t turn to look at her, feeling his face burning with shame, “they have this thing between them, right?” 

There is a beat of silence before she answers. “Yes, they are twin souls?” 

“No, not that, there is-“ he interrupts himself, breathes in deeply. Why is he getting so worked up talking about this? “They are different! They act all… close and tender.” 

“They haven’t seen each other in eighty years, and they spent most of those thinking the other was dead. I think they have earned that tenderness.” 

“Yes, of course, but they are together! They love each other, and it-“ 

“Oh gods.” At her horrified tone, he turns to look at her and sees her golden eyes blown wide. “Oh _gods_. Jaskier had said that you could be dense sometimes, and when I told Yennefer I wished to talk with you she laughed and wished me good luck but _fuck_ , Geralt. I didn’t think it was this bad.” 

“What are you on about?” 

She stands up and he frowns, almost taking a step back. He resists the urge and stares at her, having to lower his eyes a fair amount when she comes right in front of him. He is so pulled in by her serious look that he doesn’t notice her hand sneaking to his hair. A sharp pain on his ear makes him yelp and lower himself.

“You absolute daft moron!” She shouts into his ear, and then she steps backward, breathes deeply in. “How did you ever manage to catch my brother’s eye? Please, tell me, how are you even still alive? Do you have any understanding of human emotions or are you just floating along a river of denial?” 

“Jaskier’s way with words is rubbing off on you,” he rumbles, giving her a nasty look as he makes sure his whole ear is still there. She had pinched _hard_. “What are you even saying?” 

“Vesemir and Jaskier! They are not in love! They love each other, of course, but the way brothers do, you blobtit! They literally share their souls with one another, if they didn’t love each other there would be a problem. But I can assure you, Jaskier is not in love with Vesemir! And for that matter, Vesemir does not love him romantically either.” 

“But-“ 

“They found each other again less than four days ago,” Renfri growls, looking fully annoyed now. “They are allowed to be as tender and ridiculous as they want. Try spending eighty years of your life thinking you will never see the one who had been at your side for over a century, and not even having a choice in the matter. Jaskier loves everyone, you should know that better than anyone, but he is in love with only one person!” 

Gerat gulps a bit. “Who is it then?” 

Renfri looks about two seconds away from ripping his throat out. “I’m done with this, this was the most useless conversation I’ve ever had with anyone. Talking to a wall would get me somewhere faster!” 

She pushes him out of her way, growling something about stupid wolves and idiotic men, and the door slams after her. He stares after it in confusion.

So. Vesemir and Jaskier are not together? They aren’t lovers? 

Is he really _that much_ of a fool? But why did Renfri storm out like that? 

It takes a few more days for him to understand everything that went on. He is in the courtyard, training with Eskel, Aiden and Lambert training next to them as well, and every few minutes, they will all exchange fighting partners. Renfri had joined in at first, but after throwing Eskel and Lambert to the ground three times in a row and punching Geralt twice in the nose, she had seemed tired of winning, and had joined Yennefer and Ciri. Now, the three are sitting under a thick blanket, Ciri on Yennefer’s lap as she plays with a toy Vesemir carved her a few days ago. 

He is taking a break and talking with Eskel, half-thinking about the way Yennefer’s cheeks turned red when Renfri pushed back a strand of hair from her face, when he sees them pass by. 

Jaskier and Vesemir are laughing, chatting together like old friends. Which, Geralt has to remind himself of, they are. Jaskier is older than him. Jaskier is a witcher too, and he has to accept it. It’s been seven days already since they came back, and in those three days since he learnt the truth about Jaskier, about everything that happened, he has tried convincing himself to stop freaking out each time he sees Jaskier, but it’s a lost battle. He can barely bring himself to talk to his friend these days, even if the flash of hurt and sorrow he sees each time he avoids a conversation with him makes his whole body ache. He misses Jaskier, despite the closeness. 

The sight of Jaskier in tightly fitted training pants and a loose t-shirt, with the wolf medallion proudly hanging from his neck, and only a woollen cape protecting him from the cold, definitely doesn’t make the ache in Geralt’s heart go away. Rather, it grows more brazen in his chest, a deep fire that threatens to burst out of him and engulf him whole. He wants Jaskier, wants him so badly that he has forgotten what it is to not love and desire him. 

The kiss Jaskier had given him in Blaviken, featherlight and so teasing, coats his memories in a thick honey-like molasses; he has known of his feelings for the bard for a long time, has known that Jaskier meant more to him than any traveling companions or friends ever had before. He had hoped that with this winter, with him and Ciri, they could grow to trust one another in a way that was more than friendly. In the darkest moments of the night, he had let his mind run free with the possibilities of what could happen, if Jaskier’s feelings matched his own. Kisses shared openly, hands discovering each other’s body, teasing blue eyes lingering on his mouth… 

Most of this has been rendered useless now, but still. Geralt’s mind replay in a loop the imagined scenarios. 

“Joining us for some training?” Eskel asks, smiling warmly. He is the one who has gotten used to Jaskier’s presence the fastest. Lambert is still wary, but he mostly spends his days with Aiden, and Geralt… Well. “We lost Renfri to Yennefer’s charms, we could do with a few new opponents!” 

“And get my ass handed to me by you four?” Jaskier answers, laughing. “I haven’t properly trained in years, especially not to your level!” 

“All the reasons to join in now,” Eskel grins. “You’ve got to warm your old bones with some good swordfighting!” 

Jaskier is still laughing and he shakes his head. “Perhaps after I’ve put on some armour.” 

“Vesemir taking you to be fitted?” Lambert asks, curiously leaning on his training sword, despite Vesemir’s glare. 

“Just going to see if what I hid is still there,” Jaskier answers with a wink, and then turns his attention to Geralt, his smile turning almost shy. “Hi Geralt.” 

The other white wolf only nods and grunts as an answer, and Jaskier sighs deeply, tugging on Vesemir’s arm to keep moving. They all wait until the twin souls leave the courtyard, and Geralt can see them heading out of the castle, towards the old bastion. 

“Can’t you be nice with Julian?” Eskel asks, looking annoyed at Geralt. “I get it you don’t like him but-“ 

“His name is Jaskier,” Geralt snaps. “And I’m nice.” 

“You are a dick,” Eskel rolls his eyes. “Even Lambert isn’t as much of a prick as you are.” 

“Yeah, what’s he done to you anyway? I thought you liked your bard?” Lambert grins, still leaning on his sword. “What about him as a witcher got your panties twisted?” 

“For Melitele’s fucking sake,” Geralt growls. “We are friends, and I’m just giving him space to be with Vesemir again! I’m not being a dick!” 

Sitting on one of the low walls as he looks over at his sword, Aiden snorts. Geralt gives him an angry glare, but the Cat doesn’t look bothered in the slightest. He meets Geralt’s eyes calmly. 

“You Wolves are all emotionally stunted, or is it just a thing that you share with Lambert?”

“I like to think I’m more adjusted than those two,” Eskel grins as he leans against the wall. 

Aiden hums with a grin and Lambert rolls his eyes fondly. “Come on, pup. You are telling me you don’t know why your brother is being such of a buzzkill lately?” 

Lambert’s ear burn red at the nickname but he shrugs. “It’s their problem. As long as Geralt stops mopping around and looking like a sad bastard, I don’t give a fuck.” 

“I don’t mop,” Geralt protests, and from the other side of the courtyard, Yen shouts a “Yes, you do!” Giving her a glare, he continues. “I’m not a sad bastard. We are supposed to be training, not whatever this is.” 

“If you’re so bothered that he loves you, why don’t you just tell him you don’t share his feelings?” Aiden asks, and then his eyes scan Geralt’s face. “Oh, you love him too. Then why the fuck are you being like that? Just go tell him?” 

There is a chorus of “what the fuck” coming from both Lambert and Eskel, and in the background, Renfri and Yennefer laugh, and Geralt crosses his arms. 

“He doesn’t love me,” he starts, but Renfri interrupts, walking in closer, Ciri sitting on her shoulder and pulling at her hair. 

“I tried to tell him,” she sighs, giving a sympathetic look to an astonished Aiden. “I really don’t think he knows.” 

Geralt growls in frustration. “Listen I asked him who he loved and he said that he didn’t want to talk about it-“ 

“Because he thinks you don’t love him back, you dimwit,” Renfri snaps. “Especially now that you are back to being all b-“ 

“Swear words around the child,” Yennefer interrupts her with a hand on her mouth, and Ciri giggles from her vantage point. “Geralt. Do something, talk with him at least. Even if you think he doesn’t love you. Just talk to him.” 

Geralt knows when he is defeated, and he growls. “Fine! But stop being such fuc-“ 

“Swear words,” Yennefer glares at him, and he feels a spark of her magic stop him from saying more. “Ciri is only three.” 

“Three and a half,” the little princess says proudly, from where she is now standing up on Renfri’s shoulder, the Cat looking a bit panicked. “Uncle Lambert! Catch me!” 

They all yell as she throws herself towards Lambert, and the Wolf witcher catches her before a few seconds have passed. The loud sigh of relief they all share is heard through the whole courtyard, and Lambert cradles the blond girl in his arms with a deep sigh. 

“Don’t ever do this again,” Geralt scolds her, and Ciri does look contrite, although she has a pout on her lips. “This was very dangerous.” 

“But I just wanted to play! Uncle Aiden jumps on Uncle Lambert’s back all the time, Da!” 

Geralt freezes a bit, and everyone does too in the courtyard. He exchanges a brief panicked look with Yennefer, and the sorceress smiles at him, gentle. 

“Well,” Geralt says, trying to contain all the emotions rushing through him, “Uncle Aiden is much bigger than you, and he also has a lot of training. You are very small still, Ciri. I got very scared seeing you jump like that.” 

“Why were you scared?” She tilts her head. “I knew Uncle Lambert would catch me.” 

“But I didn’t, little cub. You are very precious to me, alright? If anything happened to you, I would be very sad.” 

“Just like when Pa couldn’t talk anymore?” Ciri tilts her head to the side. “Or when Grandda Vesemir took him away ?” 

Geralt’s blood rushes to his face as she asks this, and his brothers snicker slightly. He lifts her from Lambert’s arms and nods. 

“Just like that,” he mutters. “I promised I would take care of you, Ciri.” 

She thinks for a few seconds and then hugs him, as tightly as her small arms allow her to. “I love you, Da.” 

He is nearly choking on air at this point. Until Ciri, he had never really thought about children as something he wanted. She had changed his whole world, in barely a month. Now, he can’t imagine a world without her. She is his daughter, and well… She considers him her Da, and Jaskier her Pa. He hopes that it’ll be enough to keep them all together. 

“I love you too, kid,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and he meets Eskel’s eyes, who nods proudly. He half wishes he could have had this moment alone with Ciri, away from prying eyes, but everyone here is part of his family now. Even Aiden and Renfri. They are family to people he loves, so they are to him as well. Sharing this moment with his family isn’t too bad. Now, only Vesemir and Jaskier are-

Footsteps, heavier than before, but definitely still Jaskier’s and Vesemir’s, enter the courtyard again, and he turns his head to see the bonded pair walk in, a smile on both of their faces. 

Jaskier, white hair shining in the sun, looks ethereal. He has on an armour, leather and metal woven together in bands of brown, blue and silver. While Geralt has always been aware of the fact that his bard wasn’t small in any way, this new armour (or old one? He isn’t sure) really does mark him as a witcher again, and Geralt bites his lips. Jaskier is stunning, walking with confidence. He has his two swords strapped to his back, and the medallion around his neck is shining in the winter sun too. 

“Pa!” Ciri squirms in Geralt’s arms and he puts her down, only for her to run to Jaskier and be lifted in his arms. “Why are you wearing an armour like Da?” 

Jaskier looks at Geralt, his blush light, but there, and Geralt tries to smile, shrugs. Now that Ciri has decided that she was calling them this, he highly doubts she will revert to something else. Regardless, he doesn’t want that, and he suspects that neither does Jaskier. 

“You see, since I’m a witcher again, it means that, just like your dad and your uncles, I’m going to hunt monsters again, and I need an armour for that.” 

“So you won’t sing anymore?” She looks down, pouting. “I like it when you sing.” 

“Of course I’ll still sing!” He bounces her in his arms and she shrieks a bit, piercing laughter that makes every one with enhanced hearing cringe. “Alright, calm down little bird, you might fly away if you keep going like that. Why don’t you go back to Yennefer and Renfri? I’m sure they have a lot to teach you, and I want to get some training in.” 

“Wait on me for a round,” Renfri say with a grin.

“Darling,” Jaskier chuckles, and Geralt tries to ignore the way his stomach churns with unwarranted jealousy. “I don’t think I need to be reminded how good you are with a blade right away.” 

She grins, a wild thing, and winks. “Then I think you should fight Geralt first! To ease you back in, since you already know his fighting style.” 

Jaskier hums a bit, and Geralt tries to calm his heart. If he is going to fight against Jaskier, he needs to have a relatively cool head. He can’t let himself be distracted by how beautiful Jaskier looks in this outfit, and how much it suits him, although the bright colours of his doublets are something Geralt will regret. 

“Alright,” Jaskier smiles, drawing his steel sword from the sheath on his back. “Shall we then?” 

“Are you sure you don’t want to start against dummies?” Geralt doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier. This is a man who hasn’t fought much in the last eighty years. That it is the man he is head over heels in love with is also a factor in his questioning, but he won’t let himself admit that. “It would be easier for you as you-“ 

The words die on his tongue as he has to duck to avoid Jaskier’s hit to his torso, and he draws out his sword again. Jaskier’s eyes are twinkling, a large grin on his face, and for the first time since they arrived here, he looks truly himself, despite the white hair and golden eyes. This is the man who had gotten into fights at taverns and inns on Geralt’s behalf, the man who sang of love and betrayal and honour and kept repeating to Geralt that he should treat himself better. This is Jaskier, the bard of Oxenfurt, and Julian, the witcher of Kaer Morhen, finally reunited in one person. 

“Let’s dance,” Geralt growls, and he attacks Jaskier. 

He had expected Jaskier to be … well, if not weak, definitely rusty. But his bard is strong and fast, and he is cocky. He grins through it all, and when he finds himself close to Geralt, he winks or give him a teasing smile before drawing away again. Sparring with him is different from with Eskel or Lambert. Geralt knows his brothers’ style better, and they know his, and it usually leads to them attempting the unexpected. With Jaskier, there is no expectations; just like Renfri, he is a wild thing, moving faster than Geralt expects, or slower, and he always seems to be a step ahead of Geralt. 

And then, Geralt starts to feint on the right, but halfway through it decides to indeed attack there, and Jaskier is half twisted to stop the feint, and there is a second during which they clash their swords together. Geralt’s leg swipes under Jaskier, more of a reflex than anything, and Jaskier falls. Before his head can hit the ground, Geralt has a hand on Jaskier’s collar, holding him slightly above ground. 

Jaskier is panting, a bright smile illuminating his face, and his eyes look into Geralt’s. It’s unfair, how unbearably tender he manages to look, even as his face is blotched red from their spar and the cold. Geralt want only one thing: to lift Jaskier and kiss him senseless. 

Instead, he lets go of the man, and leaves the courtyard in hurried strides, heading back to the Keep. 

Someone runs behind him, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s Jaskier. He would know his bard anywhere, anytime, be it in the most complete silence or in utter chaos.

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls after him. “What have I done wrong? Please, talk to me!” 

His hand, strong and scarred, with deep marks that speak of weapons having been driven through them more than once, curls around Geralt’s elbow, and the other witcher freezes. 

“You’ve done nothing,” Geralt answers roughly, not looking at Jaskier. 

The former bard moves in his direct line of sight, and forces him to look at him by grabbing his chin. “Then what is it? Why do you… Why do you avoid me so? What can I do to keep your friendship?” 

“I don’t want your friendship,” Geralt snaps, and Jaskier steps back, stricken. “I want you! I want so much more, I want your hand in mine, I want to wake up with you next to me, I want to reach out and touch and I-“ 

He is interrupted by Jaskier’s soft laughter. The other man walks closer again, tender and calm. “Why don’t you then?” 

“Because-!” Geralt stops himself, grunts, and breathes through his nose to try and calm himself. “You love someone. You told me so.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, and he is so close to Geralt now that they can hear each other’s heartbeat. “I do love someone. I thought he didn’t love me back until very, very recently.” 

“… Oh?” Geralt is trying to be polite here, he is doing his best, but being this close to Jaskier and having to listen to him talk about the man he loves _hurts_.

Jaskier hums, and his hand comes to caress Geralt’s cheek, his smile never dimming. “See, he is the most selfless, reckless, idiotic man I’ve ever met. He helped me get my family back, and he gave me a new family. We had our fair share of arguments, and there is quite a lot that needs to be discussed between us, but when I see him… My heart starts beating so fast I almost think I’m cursed again. I want him to hold me, I want to know what his lips feel like under mine, but most of all? I want him to know that he is the best man I’ve ever met. But I think it may be a lost cause, because even when I’m holding him in my arms and confessing, he is looking at me like I’m hurting him.” 

Geralt frowns, almost starting to ask what he means by that, before he shuts his mouth again. _Oh._

“It’s me,” Geralt says, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. “The one you love. It’s me.” 

Jaskier’s answering smile is radiant, and Geralt leans forward, unable to resist the pull of those delicate lips. He doesn’t dare properly kiss him, only hovering against his lips at first, but Jaskier chuckles and kisses him deeply, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and tugging on his white hair. 

Geralt has been kissed many times before, and not all the time were enjoyable, but still. It is something he usually appreciates. Here, he doesn’t simply _appreciate_ it. Kissing Jaskier is like allowing chaos to run through his veins; he feels energized and even more needy when they break apart, and he can’t help delving in for more. He can feel the slight mark of Jaskier’s scar on his lower lip, and his teeth graze at it, which results in Jaskier tugging on his hair again.

When they break apart, when breathing becomes indispensable, Jaskier stays curled against him. They are still standing in the middle of one of the hallways, but they can’t begin to care. Wrapped up in each other like this, they can feel the other’s heartbeat, the way it is echoed in their own chest. 

“I…” Geralt gulps a bit and then groans. He is so tired of being afraid of telling this to Jaskier. How long has he waited for this moment already? He won’t wait any longer. “I love you, Jaskier, or Julian, or whatever you prefer to be called now.” 

Jaskier chuckles and presses a delicate kiss to his cheek. “Jaskier, my darling witcher. It’s been my name for a little while now, and I have grown fond of it.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Oh, and… Geralt?” He waits until Geralt is back looking at him to smile sunnily. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed this :'D


	13. Prophecies and Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must be an end to everything, but to them, this is only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeee folks! we made it! Last chapter of Ode To Fury... 
> 
> For this once, I'm going to make my big comment at the end :D 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

Kissing Geralt, _properly_ kissing him, is a wonder. There is a way he lets himself be kissed, a way he allows Jaskier to take and take, that the newly witcher again hadn’t expected. It makes Jaskier wonder what else he has yet to discover from his White Wolf, what he will be surprised with. He wants to be surprised, wants to learn everything he hasn’t in the last thirteen years, and then stay even longer. He wants the peace of mind of knowing him without needing a bond, without anything tying them together more than their own choices. 

They are in Geralt’s bedroom, sprawled on his bed. Jaskier’s armour is half removed, Geralt’s warm hands holding gently to Jaskier’s torso under his shirt, and, despite the coolness of the air, Jaskier has never felt warmer in his life. He has his life back, his home too, and he has a family now, a family and a man he loves more than he has ever loved before. 

“You’re thinking of something else,” Geralt says, voice deep and a bit roughened up by the long kisses they have been sharing until now. 

Jaskier hums and pecks at his lover’s lips once more. “Absolutely not. I’m thinking of you.” 

“Are you now?” Geralt has a small smile on his face, something soft that makes Jaskier want to kiss him again and again. “Care to share what you are thinking of then?” 

“Fishing for compliments?” Jaskier teases. 

“Maybe, or maybe I want to know what distracts you when we are in bed together.” 

The laughter that ripples out of him is loud and delighted, and Geralt looks positively charmed by it. With every passing minute, Jaskier becomes more and more endeared with him. 

“I am thinking of how lucky I am to be loved by you,” Jaskier whispers gently, fighting the fear that rises within him as he speaks the words aloud. It is still so new, still so delicate, this thing between them. He is still dangling over the edge of a precipice of doubts, only holding himself back thanks to Geralt’s warm hold on him. “Of how… Of how I would be nothing anymore if I had not met you again in Posada.” 

“You, nothing?” Geralt shakes his head and he moves his hand from Jaskier’s hips to his cheek, his thumb brushing against the scar on the other witcher’s chin. “I don’t believe that. You would have managed fine on your own, I’m sure of it.” 

“I wouldn’t have you holding me. I wouldn’t have Ciri in my life, nor Yennefer, and I wouldn’t have my old life back. I don’t think you understand how much I owe to you. Well. I don’t _owe_ you anything, I know, but there is… How much are you willing to put up with an over illustrated speech right now?”

Geralt chuckles fondly and kisses the corner of his lips. It is such a strange image, but in the most pleasant of way. Geralt, his hair splayed on the pillows, his shirt half-undone due to Jaskier trailing kisses down his neck a few minutes ago, when there had still been passion running high through their bodies, is a sight to behold. He has always been, of course, but right now, with the soft look in his eyes, there is something breath-taking about him that even Jaskier would be hard pressed to pinpoint. 

“Anything you are willing to tell me, I will gladly listen.” 

“Thank you, my dear.” Jaskier sighs softly. “Then… You happened to me like the ocean happens to a river who has been flowing toward it all its life: I knew I would meet you again, I knew I would fall for you. You are the most logical and yet insane thing that has happened to me. Even getting cursed pales in comparison to the love I have for you. Stregobor ruined my life, it made me so angry and bitter. I would have split the world in half and made it change its rotation if it had meant getting back who I was, getting back Vesemir. When I first met Renfri, she fed that anger in me, and we brought out the anger in each other. But meeting you there, in Blaviken, meeting a Wolf who saw kindness and what was right… You changed me, just a little bit. 

“It was the first grain of salt in the waters of my river. I took some time to rebuild myself, and I… Well, I made some stupid decisions, but then I met you again, and the world righted itself again. You might not like Her very much, but Destiny wanted us to meet again, and Destiny got what it wanted. You are… The gods damn me if they will, but I know you were my destiny, just like Ciri is yours. When I fell in love with you, when it was clear that the feelings I had for you were not leaving, even after we had screamed ugly things at each other, I knew it. Something confirmed it for me not so long ago, and I couldn’t find the right time until now to show you.”

Geralt, who until then had listened silently, perks up a bit. “What is it?”

“I’ll go find it after,” Jaskier promises with a smile. “I think you’ll find the whole thing most interesting. You are my ocean, Geralt.” 

The white haired witcher smiles a bit. “I’ll admit, all the finesse of this metaphor is a bit lost on me, but I am glad you think so. I owe you many things as well, and if we started keeping tally, I think we would probably have an equal amount of things we owe to each other. So what do you say we start anew? Nothing holding us back, now that your curse is broken, now that we are here in Kaer Morhen together.” 

“Alright,” Jaskier nods. “Starting anew it is.” 

Geralt’s smile could warm up the entire keep with the happiness that radiates from it.

They end up rejoining the rest of their friends and families an hour or so later, when they have gotten a satisfying amount of kisses and caresses from each other, when their lips are swollen and their hearts are too full of an old love that they are finally allowing to blossom. Although, Jaskier doubts he will ever be satisfied with the amount of affection he receives from Geralt. It is not a new side of his witcher, not exactly, but it still sends thrills through him to remember that he is allowed to touch now, to reach out and _hold_.

Geralt, despite what he had wanted to make the world believe, was a rather affectionate man, who loved fleeting touches when none other was available to him. Now, he keeps a gentle grasp on Jaskier’s hand, and every few minutes his thumb runs circles into the back of his hand. 

“So, you’ve finally stopped believing Jaskier is dating Vesemir?” Renfri asks as they walk in the courtyard.

Jaskier frowns and turns his head to see Geralt blushing, his cheeks taking a rather lovely red shade. He glares at Renfri, and the Cat grins widely, her eyes shining gold and teeth silver in the fading winter light. 

“Wait,” Jaskier grins too, amusement rising through him. “Geralt, did you think I was in love with _Vesemir_?” 

Geralt groans and lets go of his hand, crossing his arms, but despite his annoyed expression, he is still blushing. 

“It wasn’t that unbelievable,” he protests as Jaskier starts to giggle a bit. “You two act like an old couple, you were basically attached at the hip until now and, well, Vesemir was devastated when he thought he had lost you again.” 

Through a fit of giggles, Jaskier manages to answer. “I sang you love songs for a decade, Geralt, I wrote love songs about you! I thought you knew I loved you back then!” 

“You wrote love songs about me?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier smiles tenderly at the confusion in his lover’s voice. “When?” 

There is a collective groan from everyone in the courtyard, although Jaskier can feel Vesemir’s amusement beating in his chest. His twin soul is enjoying the scene, fondly annoyed at Geralt’s obliviousness. Though, Jaskier can’t really put all the fault on Geralt; he had, until very recently, thought that Geralt loved Yennefer. 

“Yes I did, and I think I even have a new one to write,” Jaskier smiles happily, to which Geralt leans forward to steal yet another kiss, light and tender. 

“Please, spare us your sickeningly sweet, mildly traumatizing flirting,” Yennefer deadpans behind them. “We have quite a lot still to discuss, and now that you two are … whatever you are, we can finally get to it.” 

“What does traumatizing means?” Ciri pipes up, and Jaskier smiles as the girl gets up from her seat on the wall where Yennefer and Renfri had been entertaining her. “And what’s flirting?” 

“Nothing you can’t wait to know, little cub,” Eskel answers as he lifts her in his arms, helping her down gently. “It just means now Geralt and Jaskier are going to kiss and sing and be in love.” 

Ciri nods seriously. “Just like grandma and Eist! But I thought they were already in love?” 

Jaskier flushes too this time, his cheeks warming up as Renfri throws him an amused look. “We … Weren’t until today, darling. But now, Geralt and I are together. I hope that’s okay with you?” 

Again, her head bobs up and down as she takes her most serious look. Eskel puts her on the ground, and she runs to Jaskier, asking to be lifted again, and Jaskier is more than happy to oblige. 

“Yes! I’m happy you and Da are together!” She smiles widely and hugs him as tight as she can, and he returns the embrace gently. 

He throws a look to Vesemir, who shrugs, a smile illuminating his face gently, and Jaskier feels his happiness through their bond. It feels so natural to be back here, to have Vesemir back in his life, but most importantly, to be here with Geralt, and to love him. 

It’s only after he puts Cirilla to sleep, when the girl has had her dinner and is thoroughly exhausted by attempting to train with her uncles, that he has the opportunity to bring out the book Melissa made of all her drawings about him. Still, he finds himself captivated by the drawings that he sees, even on the forefront. Some are made in charcoal, some are more rough sketches, but they all carry a life within that he can’t quite describe. Well, not on the spot anyway. 

“What’s this?” Geralt asks when he comes back. There is a glass of wine waiting for Jaskier next to him, while he himself cradles a mug of beer. “A book?” 

“Remember that thing I mentioned earlier, the one that had confirmed-“ he stops himself, realizing that this could reveal more than either of them would want to share in front of their family. “Anyway. This is it.” 

Aiden and Renfri snickers as the rest of the Wolves look unamused, and Jaskier shoots the Cats a glare, but it has no effect on them. After all, why would it? Aiden has Lambert half-sprawled on his lap, and Renfri has long ago stopped feeling any remorse for her mockery of Jaskier. Such is the fate of siblings. 

“Get your mind out of your ass,” he tells them regardless, and Lambert snorts at this. Alright, maybe still not the perfect phrasing, but this has been a rather emotional day, damn it! 

Vesemir coughs, and Jaskier feels his twin soul’s amusement. He wants to pout, a bit childishly, but Geralt’s hand settles on his knee, and he resists the urge. However, when he sees that even Yennefer is snickering in her hand as well, he rolls his eyes. 

“You are all children,” he sighs.

“We know, old man,” Eskel grins. 

Jaskier wants to feel offended, wants to protest that he isn’t old, but he _is_. Most importantly, it’s the first time that Eskel, who is by far the most reserved and quiet of their group, has felt comfortable enough to tease and poke at Jaskier. Jaskier remembers him as a child, and he remembers that he had been quiet then, but not quite as much. 

He has missed so much. Had he been not quite so stubborn, had he stayed and fought, killed all the Elders if needed, would things have been different? It is a thought that has plagued his mind ever since he left the Keep and was cursed, and he had thought that coming back, being uncurled, would stop it, would make him feel more at peace, but apparently not. 

“Jask,” Renfri’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “Everything alright?” 

“Right, yes. Sorry, got lost in my head for a moment.” He ignores the worried glance he gets from both Vesemir and Renfri. Having them both here really strengthens the feeling of his family being back together for once; both of his siblings are there to worry and annoy him. “This is the book Melissa, Stregobor’s daughter, gave me. It has some of the visions she had drawn in, and some notes as well, and this was my first clue we needed to go to Cintra.” 

“Wait,” Renfri startles. “Melissa is _Stregobor’s daughter_?” 

Next to her, Yennefer is looking as shocked and disgusted by the idea as the former princess of Creyden, and Jaskier grimaces a bit. He had forgotten to tell them about that. 

“Who is Melissa, besides Stregobor’s daughter?” Geralt asks, confused as to why Renfri is reacting so viscerally. “Is she a threat or-“ 

“No! Nothing of the sort,” Jaskier hurries to say. “She is a friend. She also happens to be an Oracle.” 

Vesemir whistles, leaning forward on the table to look at the book Jaskier brought. “You made powerful friends while we were separated, Julek.” 

Jaskier snorts a bit. “Yeah, I didn’t know she was one until two months ago though. As I said, she gave me this book. She has no idea who her father is, and I sent her to Triss Merigold for more training and protection. Now that you’re here, Yen, I was hoping we could contact them?” 

“I can try,” Yennefer shrugs, still looking a bit shocked. “I can’t believe that bastard had a daughter.” 

“He tried really hard not to have her exist,” Jaskier mutters, anger rising. “Sometimes I think we should have made him suffer some more for all that he did.”

Vesemir’s worry strengthens, and Jaskier knows he will have to talk more about Stregobor with his twin soul, will have to explain more about those last eighty years. They have a lot to catch up on, hours upon hours lost to the curse, and there are moments when they are out of the perfect equilibrium they once were, but Jaskier isn’t worried. As long as Julek and Vesemir exists, as long as they breathe together and share the same heartbeat, he knows that they will always become stronger together. 

Lambert looks at the book with Vesemir, frowning down at the pages. 

“Do you know what they all mean?” He asks, stopping on a drawing that had puzzled Jaskier as well. “This is… rather strange.” 

“I don’t have much for those who didn’t concern me directly. There are a few I suspect to be about Ciri, and some about Renfri as well, but there are some I simply have no idea.” 

“This one included?” Lambert taps the page open in front of him. “It’s vaguely familiar though. There is something… strange about it.”

The page is a dark one, with only one source of light that illuminates it completely. Incredibly detailed, Jaskier knows that Melissa must have had that vision at least a few times to be able to give it the strength that it has. There are rarely any other pages that are quite as precise and immersing. The trees drawn on the page seem alive, as if a breeze will make their leaves move at any instant, and there is a strange drawing at the centre, surrounded by the luxurious vegetation. The outline of deer’s skull is floating through a white circle, and despite all his education, Jaskier has no idea what it means. 

It is interesting though, that Lambert out of all of them pointed this one out. Aiden is also staring at it, fingers drumming on the table, his expression unreadable. Unlike with Lambert and Eskel, on whom he can see mimics shared with both Geralt and Vesemir, Aiden is fully unknown to him. Already, he associates him to the family of Kaer Morhen, but he finds it difficult to really know the Cat. 

“I have no idea what this one means,” Jaskier sighs. “It’s definitely an interesting one, but I can’t exactly decrypt it. There are no notes either, and since I have no way of contacting Melissa here, I can’t have more informations. Even if I was able to ask her, there is no guarantee she would know more. She has very little control over her abilities so far, and it could take her years to master it properly.” 

“Something tells me we don’t have those years,” Geralt mumbles, glancing at the page. “Why show us the book now?” 

Jaskier shrugs, drinking a bit of his wine. “I thought you would all find it interesting? I had almost fully forgotten about it until earlier, and now that I’m back, I think I could try to decipher some more of them.” 

“I could help you with that,” Aiden says, looking up at Jaskier from where he was still staring on the page. “If you don’t mind the company.” 

Aiden is handsome, Jaskier realizes as he falls under the man’s gaze for the first time. The long dark locks of his hair, rivalling even Geralt’s hair, are brought up in a carefully crafted bun, leaving most of his face clear, and it is braided too, something that Jaskier recognizes from a southern style more than a northern one. His skin is a dark shade of brown and his face is speckled with brown moles. All together, with his golden eyes and rather easy smile, he looked charming, and it was easy to see why Lambert had been attracted to him originally. 

“Of course,” the former bard hurries to answer, allowing himself to smile this time. “I’ve been quite out of the magical loop for some time now, so I would appreciate any help.” 

Aiden nods, flipping another page, and Geralt leans in to whisper low enough that only Jaskier will hear. 

“Lambert told us Aiden studied the magical arts in Ban Ard for a special training,” he explains

Suddenly Jaskier understands the curious looks he has been receiving from Aiden. He is, after all, an uncursed being. Any magically trained person must be rather keen to study him. Despite her vast powers, even Yennefer can’t resist the attraction of it; she has made sure, multiple times, that the curse would not harm him. 

“It still seems to exist,” she had said, a bit perplexed. “You have broken it, but it is still clinging to you. I could remove it, if you want, but I am not sure I could. I have no idea what exact wording Stregobor used, and I doubt he let you hear it, the bastard, so I am a bit cautious about whether or not there would be side effects. I suppose that, as long as it doesn’t harm you, it’s probably safer to leave it there.” 

They had talked about it some more, and Jaskier had asked a thousand questions until Yennefer had rolled her eyes and left the room. Clearly, she had not been too concerned about his health, although she had promised that she would do some more research and, if she truly found nothing that could help her, would contact some other sorceresses. 

Coming back to the present, Jaskier finds the whole table now immersed in reading a page of Elder, and Jaskier smiles a bit. The poem, for it is one, is one about the future, one that he had read a few times on the road. He knows it mostly by heart now, and while it would make a terrible ballad, in the original Elder speech, it does sound beautiful. 

Geralt is frowning deeply, and so are Renfri, Vesemir, and Lambert. Jaskier realizes with a startle that none of them is well-versed in Elder speech; he had known for Vesemir, after all Jaskier had been the more talented out of the two of them in foreign languages, and most books in Kaer Morhen are translated into the common tongue, as far as he remembers. He was vaguely aware that Geralt’s understanding of Elder was more than flawed, though it had not come up much since their encounter with the elves of Posada, but he had completely forgotten that Renfri had been taken out of her home before she had the opportunity to learn it. The Cat Elders had clearly not thought it necessary to teach her more than the rudimentary basics. 

“What does it say?” She ends up asking Yennefer, her face set in an annoyed frown and her arms crossed. “Why the fuck would she even write in Elder, fucking Oracle shit…” 

Yennefer grins a bit. “Why, don’t be so negative, I could teach you Elder if that is of any interest to you.” 

Renfri looks at her, an interested light shining in her eyes. “Would you?” 

“Why, I would be more than pleased to do so.” 

This time, Renfri’s smirk is positively ravenous, her eyes bright on Yennefer. The sorceress seems to appreciate the attention and she winks. 

“All lessons have a cost,” she says, her voice a bit breathy, and Jaskier doesn’t have to look to know that Renfri’s hand as lowered itself to her thigh. 

“I’m sure I can find something to repay you with,” the Cat witcher answers pleasantly. 

Yennefer hums, and Jaskier suddenly wishes he were elsewhere. He would love to not see his sister flirting with one of his friends.

The sorceress does end up translating the poem for the rest of the table, and they move on to the other pages. Melissa’s artwork is delicate in some place, messy in others, but some of the pages elicit more reactions than others. Vesemir finds the page where Melissa had drawn Julian cursed, and there are tears in his eyes, and Jaskier reaches over, squeezing his hand. 

There is so much more they still need to discuss, many tears that will be shed, but for now, sitting all together around this table, it feels right. 

They will fight Nilfgaard and the whole Continent, if they need to. Jaskier knows that in this place, in this castle that had held his childhood, his first love, and now his true love, there is now only people he loves, and people he will grow to love. 

He is home, truly home, and he can’t help the happy smile that blooms on his face as Geralt slips an arm around his waist, holding him. Julian of Kaer Morhen let place to Jaskier the bard, and his future is looking bright with love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))) This is finally over! I say this as if it's a relief lol but no, it's a very gutting feeling for me. Ode to Fury was a very important story for me to tell, and there is so much more I want to explore in this verse! 
> 
> If I do write more, there is a high probability that i won't focus so much on Geraskier; their story is told, and while I do love some pure sweetness, I have to say that I think I wouldn't be able to do them justice there. I have a few thoughts swirling around for Lamden (Lambert/Aiden), Yennfri (Yennefer/Renfri) and for Ciri's future as well... But we shall see. 
> 
> I wanted to thank all of you who commented & who left kudos & who read this story for the last 13 weeks! That's... a lot of weeks lmao and I am not exaggerating when I say that every comment, kudos, bookmark left me grinning happily for hours. You have all been fantastic, and I am so happy to have shared this story with you. 
> 
> Special shout out to [ChaosWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosWriting/works) for listening to my mad ramblings, [geekyyoungblood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyyoungblood/works) and [MaliciousVegetarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaliciousVegetarian/works) for their amazing & constant support, but also to [CassandrasDreamworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassandrasDreamworld/pseuds/CassandrasDreamworld) who let me ramble and be overexcited about this fic and who fed my ego wildly during the last few weeks as I've gotten to know them. Last but not least, I want to give ALL my love to [Brothebro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro) who, besides being an awesome human being, also made a wonderful, amazing [fanart of Jaskier as he is as a witcher](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/630707044987584512/saltytransidiot-s-witcher-jaskier-from-the) which may or may not be my current phone background. Who am I kidding, it totally is. 
> 
> If anyone ever wants to draw fanart/write something based on this, I can and will cry of joy and love. That is both a threat and a promise. 
> 
> Anyhoo, I am very happy to see that so many people have enjoyed this story, which started in quite a silly manner. It has been an awesome part of my life and now that I'm moving on to other projects, I miss it quite a lot. 
> 
> Though I have a few very fun stories in the works... Yes two of them have God of Love!Jaskier because i have a niche and i'll work it until i cannot stand the concept anymore :') 
> 
> Once again, thank you all, it was amazing to write this. Take care, dear hearts <3

**Author's Note:**

> :D 
> 
> Next chapter will be up next week! If yall enjoyed this fic, don't hesitate to comment or leave a kudos! They make for happier days :D 
> 
> Also, just a note: from then on, we will follow loosely the show's canon events, but there will be a fair amount of knowledge from the game (The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt) in it as well, although I believe i've not made it _too_ confusing for show-only readers! 
> 
> Come chat with me on tumblr, you can find me on my blog @saltytransidiot !


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